Home Front
by Anonymous2004
Summary: Until now, Batman's only cared about taking out the bigshots of crime. But when a dedicated woman gets caught up in his current crusade, both he and Bruce Wayne will discover where crime and tragedy begin: on the home front. Post DK. Bruce Wayne/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Oh, eff! I completely forgot to add the disclaimer thingy. So. Right. Yeah. I don't own Batman or Gotham or anything. I'm just a girl, tail-gating on someone else's creative genius. Not making any money off anything here. Moving along...

* * *

**Prologue**

For the first time in years—hell, in as long as she could remember—Carrolly knew what it felt like to have hope.

At first, she hadn't recognized the emotion. At first, it simply manifested itself as a lack of fear, and then, it grew, inspired by the hunch that for once, she had a chance for something different, something other than the life of misery to which she had long ago grown accustomed.

Hope was a funny thing—it rendered Carrolly introspective. It was strange, actually, how life had brought her here…how years of being one of the Arrows' floozies actually got her out of the mess her life had become when she took off at fourteen. Carrolly wasn't stupid, not even then. She knew that she wasn't headed anywhere good when she ran away, but anything had to be better than where she lived, with her horrible brother and her indifferent parents. They had never had much time for her, and they certainly never believed her when she tried to tell them what their darling son had been doing to her. And so Carrolly knew that she had to look out for herself, or else hers would be a short life.

And she had made it this far, hadn't she? She was just turning thirty-two, there was still plenty of time to do something with herself. Sure, she looked a little rough—fifteen years with Arrows would do that to you—but she wouldn't have to give up her body any more to get by. She'd be taken care of. She knew it.

And so, on that late summer evening, Carrolly sat on her couch in her little studio apartment, and felt what it was to hope. Happily, she took a sip of her Cabernet, ignoring the cheap plastic wine goblet and instead focusing on the rich warmth of the alcohol as it spread into her stomach. She had always watched how much she drank—life wouldn't get any easier if she turned into a lush, after all—but she figured that tonight, of all nights, she deserved it. She had just finished a 10-hour shift at the café, and her boss had told her he wanted to put her in charge of the day crew. After work, she had made her way up to her cheap, furnished studio, and it was there that she had received a call from Them. They had struck a deal—after the trial, she'd be moved to another city, established in a job, given money to go to school. And until then, protection.

Them. Carrolly knew their names, of course—she just couldn't stop thinking of them in divisive terms, Us versus Them. Even though _They _were the ones who had ultimately rescued her, had given her the chance to get away. It was just that she had been with the Arrows so long, it was hard to think of herself as being one of Them. But for all intents and purposes, she was, especially to the Archers. They were gunning for her, and she no longer belonged on their side. Fifteen years as an Arrows call girl meant that she had seen and heard a lot, and that's why They had wanted to work with her.

It had taken her all of ten minutes to agree to their proposal, and she had done so with very little guilt. Sure, in their own way, the Arrows had taken care of her, but at what cost? Christ, it had been an awful way to live. Carrolly fancied herself a survivor, and she knew that there would only be so much longer she could survive at their tender mercies. Especially since Boy-o had joined.

A chilly breeze, unexpected for the season, fingered its way past the open windows, and elicited a shiver from Carrolly. Reluctantly she bestirred herself from the couch and made her way over to the window. Just before she pulled the window closed, she leaned out to look on at the dark Gotham night. It wasn't a million-dollar view, to be sure—but it wasn't the Narrows, either. Yes, there was hope for Carrolly.

It was just incredibly short-lived.

Later that night, she huddled under her comforter, and listened to the wind as it howled outside. That chilly breeze had been a harbinger of a coming storm, and it was now breaking overhead. The crashing thunder and the wind rattling against the windowpane masked any other noises there might have been, which was very unfortunate for Carrolly. Because she wasn't alone in her home, and if she had been able to hear over the storm, she would have heard the sounds of her modest hopes dying.

Out of the shadows in Carrolly's pathetic little studio, a figure emerged—tall, incredibly thin, but no less frightening for that reason. He crept towards Carrolly's bed and smiled almost tenderly. She always looked so much younger when she was asleep; sleep robbed her of the years of rough use she had experienced at the hands of so many—including himself. Boy-o, called thus because of his angelic, boyish face, loved her as he loved all his women—as his toys, his objects, simply _his..._And when you take away a boy's toy, well, do so at your own risk. Boy-o didn't spare much thought to Them. He didn't fault Them, those men that had taken Carrolly away from him. No, Carrolly had been a willing victim, going along with Them, just like Helen of Troy, a willing betrayer.

His hands twitched a little. He longed to touch her, to claim her, to remind her to whom she belonged, but there was little time for that. Too little time; the time for words, even gestures, had passed, had passed long ago, the last time he had struck her. He had tried to tell her that she didn't need those teeth, he still loved her, but she didn't give him the chance. Just said she was going to go to a dentist, and then disappeared. And now, six weeks later, here she was, and there he was. But not for long.

A bluish-white flash of lightning illuminated the room, and it was then that Boy-o saw that Carrolly was awake, staring at him, paralyzed in fear. And before she could speak, draw in a breath, scream, _anything, _Boyo was on her, crushing her, and just like that, Carrolly knew Hope for what it was: a fickle, fickle friend.

* * *

It was really rather amazing how many people could fit into a tiny, 350-square-foot studio apartment, Commissioner Jim Gordon noted as he stepped into the dark, cramped space. Especially considering the current circumstances. How many people were there? Himself, two of the forensics staff, the coroner, three detectives…and Carrolly. She may be dead, but Gordon wasn't ready to stop counting her. Not yet. She deserved at least that much.

Detective Montoya approached him, looking like death on a platter. She hated the graveyard shift, usually because it was during these hours that the completely whacked cases turned up—the suicides, the incests, the gang rapes, the truly violent deaths. Including this one. "One of the neighbors was taking her dog out for a walk this morning, said the dog passed this door and went nuts. Howling, whining, scratching at the door. Wouldn't budge for anything. So she called us. The dog probably smelled the blood."

Glancing around, Gordon could see why—the sleeping area was completely saturated in blood and gore. The figure in the bed only vaguely resembled a woman—the majority of her body had been bludgeoned, and only random pieces of evidence attested to her humanity—one preserved hand that somehow escaped the violence, a lock of brassy-blonde hair that managed to stay free of the blood. "Coroner estimates the time of death around four-forty AM. Says that she sustained blunt-force trauma to the head, probably killed her instantly."

Gordon drew closer. "What about the other injuries? The bludgeoning?"

"Sustained postmortem."

A tiny exhalation escaped Gordon, and he found himself relieved. Glancing over at the younger detective, he saw an identical emotion in her eyes. She shrugged. "In this line of work, boss, you learn to count your blessings pretty quick. A quick death, hopefully. You take what you can get."

They watched silently as the investigative crew began to wrap up. The coroner pulled the sheet up over what was left of Carrolly's head and turned to Gordon. "The crew is going to be here in about an hour to pick her up. But I've got a John Doe uptown that I need to investigate, and we can't leave the body alone. You going to be here a while?"

Gordon nodded. "As long as it takes."

They watched as the rest of the crew filtered out of the tiny studio, and then Montoya turned to him. "You want me to stay, Boss?"

"Not this time."

Not for nothing was Montoya credited with being a particularly sharp, perceptive detective. She picked up on the cryptic tone behind Gordon's words, and knew not to question him. She packed up her kit, gathered her notes, glanced at her watch. "I'm going to call you in a couple of hours. Let's get some coffee later."

Gordon barely nodded as she left. And then he sat down to wait.

It didn't take long.

How the Batman managed to make it through that tiny window, seven stories up, Gordon really had no clue. But he had stopped questioning the feats of his caped comrade long ago, and now only stoically accepted his unconventional ways of making an entrance.

The two men looked at each other, neither saying a word. And then the Batman broke his gaze and turned towards Carrolly. Silently he approached the bed, crouched down, and stared. And Gordon stared at the Batman. It was only during these godawful moments, when together they contemplated Gotham's luckless victims, that Gordon was reminded that there was actually a human under that get-up, a human with human emotions and human vulnerabilities. And it was these godawful moments, strangely, that reassured Gordon that he was working with a genuine human being, someone capable of normal emotions of compassion and empathy and horror and revulsion. Somehow, that reassured Gordon that he wasn't completely insane in trusting this enigma, and that this person was, under all of the black and gadgets, relatively normal.

Finally, the Batman spoke. "This was Carrolly, right? Your crew set her up here?"

Gordon nodded unhappily. "Carrolly Cooper. She was one of the Arrow's girls…she'd been with them for years. Ran away from home at fourteen, spent a few years as a prostitute before she fell in with the Arrows. She'd been with them for about fifteen years…turned up at Gotham Memorial about six weeks ago, really beat up. One of the Arrows had gotten over-zealous with her, and she was scared enough to go to the hospital. One of the trauma counselors got wind of her situation, referred her to me…"

He passed the file over to the Batman. "She's the third one in as many weeks. Another Arrow girl, another witness."

The Batman shook his head. "Not anymore." He read through the files, the interview transcriptions, the sworn affidavits, the small pile of papers that were now the only testament to the life of Carrolly.

"She was excited," Gordon said, trying to make her seem even more like a real person, as though that would further stimulate the Batman's interest in the case. "One of our men spoke with her earlier in the evening—we were going to set her up in Metropolis, help her with college. She was talking about becoming a nurse. And her testimony would have taken out at least two mid-level mobsters."

What neither man acknowledged, and what remained uncomfortably unspoken between them, was that it had been her testimony that made her a person worthy of their attention. Had she not been connected with the Arrows, the most powerful mob in Gotham since Falcone's fall, she would have been just another woman, another prostitute, another nameless victim lost on the streets of Gotham. But it was only now, in death, with her body mangled beyond recognition, that Carolly's life began to take shape, have value, be seen for what it could have been.

But it all came back down to the investigation. They had been working on the Arrows for close to half a year now, and it was the various Arrows women who had defected that were proving to give them the most valuable information. And now…three dead. Some how, someone was leaking their whereabouts, their new identities.

Time was running out. And so was hope.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

That same morning in late August, just a few hours after Carrolly Cooper became another statistic, Annabeth de Burgh awoke to an iron-grey sky, a torrent of rain, and a sense of impending doom. As she heaved herself out of her creaky old bed, she sighed inwardly—it was Monday. Most folks she knew would dread Mondays simply for it being the beginning of a long workweek, but not her. Mondays for Annabeth were sinister affairs, ushering in a new week's worth of heartbreak, fear, and misery. When she had first started her job, she had been energetic and hopeful at the beginning of the week...but it had not taken her long at all to learn to dread Mondays.

She had found little ways of coping—wearing her most professional and flattering work outfits, indulging in an overpriced, sugary coffee drink, meeting friends for dinner, delving into a good book after she returned home—but all of these were flimsy, shallow and trivial even, in the face of Annabeth's day at work. It was, to put it baldly, simply slapping lipstick on a pig—no matter what she did to dress it up, there was no disguising the truth of the matter: Monday was simply an ugly bitch.

As she went through the normal morning routines, she tried to pump herself up. _It'll be a good day. _Gulp down her first cup of coffee. _Good things could happen today. _Make the bed. _Or at least m__aybe, somehow, just possibly horrible things won't happen today. _Hop in the shower. _Good people do exist. _Lather, shampoo, rinse, condition, rinse again. _Believe in the goodness of the world. _Quickly dress in her Ralph Lauren suit, one of the thrift store finds of which she was rightly proud. _Today we'll make a difference. _Sit down at the table with her toast and fruit, unfold the paper, begin to read. _Good things might happen—_

Annabeth froze in mid-bite as she found herself staring at the headlines of the _Gotham Gazette's _latest and grimmest news, and learned that Carrolly Cooper was dead.

_Fuck Mondays anyway._

Just then, her cell phone rang. Stunned, working on autopilot, Annabeth reached over and answered, not able to tear her eyes away from the awful headline and the even more awful photos.

"Annabeth." Donna, her boss, was on the other end of the phone, her perpetually unruffled voice pulling Annabeth back into the present moment. "You see the papers? The ladies are going crazy down here. You have to get here as soon as you can." Never in the years that they had worked together had Annabeth heard Donna sound anything other than unflustered, calm, reassuring, and now was no different—but Annabeth can hear the urgency lurking in the words.

"I'm on my way."

Five minutes later, Annabeth was out the door, locking the deadbolts, and racing down the stairs. She glanced at her watch—only an hour and fifteen minutes into her day, and it was already going to hell in a handbasket. So much for her peptalk—good things may happen, but not to the people Annabeth helped. Or, in the case of Carrolly Cooper, failed to help. Annabeth closed her eyes briefly, simultaneously recalling and trying to erase the image of Carrolly's broken, mangled body, plastered over the front page of the _Gazette. _Fucking tabloid—since when had freedom of the press _ever _benefited the good citizens of Gotham?

She emerged onto the streets, just as the deluge of rain strengthened, and a crack of thunder reverberated overhead. Taking a cab was the obvious choice, but even on the best of days, catching a cab in Bordertown was a rare event—the neighborhood, while relatively safe, was too close to the Narrows for most cab drivers to feel safe cruising. Which was probably just as well—Annabeth's meager salary could scarcely support her gadding about Gotham in a jalopy of a cab driven by a cabbie who probably overcharged by half.

A gust of wind drove a torrent of rain into her, and she paused for the briefest of moments, trying to figure out how August could feel so damned cold. Then the memory of Donna's voice, low and urgent, rose up, and she plunged ahead, racing down the street. If she hurried, she'd be able to catch the 7:18 Metro into the city.

Midtown, the weather was no better—perhaps even worse. And it was no summer storm, either—as Annabeth raced past the newsstand at the corner of 39th and Mason, she overheard the old newsagent's radio blaring about a tropical storm that had blown ashore a hundred miles south the night before. They were in for at least another twelve hours of it. _Perfect._

Twenty minutes after leaving her home, after having battled cranky crowds as she straggled through the rain for the last three blocks from the Metro station, Annabeth finally arrived at her work. She scurried up the stone steps of the stately six-story brownstone, hauled open the heavy glass doors bearing the title SAFE HAVEN CONSULTING, INC., and breathed a sigh of relief. Thomas, the day security guard, was on the desk as she arrived, and smiled slightly as she held her security badge aloft. The two of them had an easy working relationship, born from the years of both of them doggedly staying on despite all the awful Mondays. The look he gave her now was equal parts commiserating and relieved, and told her all she needed to know: upstairs, all was in chaos, no doubt, and he was happy to have what he considered to be the easiest job in the building.

Annabeth sailed past him through the doors to the waiting room (empty as usual) and to the locked elevator. She swiped her key card, and a few moments later, the elevator slid open. She stepped into the silent, cool, completely generic space, punched the button…

…and twenty seconds later, stepped into the expected chaos.

"Annabeth!"

"Can you believe this?"

"…are we safe? I'm talkin' to you!"

A phone was ringing, at least two children were screaming, one woman was crying, and Donna's assistant, Maya, was standing at her desk, trying to calm down the half-dozen women who were clustered around. "Annabeth!" Maya caught sight of her. "Thank god—Donna's in her office, on the phone with the Commissioner. Go on in!"

"Why does she get to see her?" demanded Johanna, one of the women—a leggy brunette with an tough attitude and a fearless tongue to match.

"Jesus, Johanna, because she _works _here." Maya was having a hard time keeping her patience. Donna had chosen her as an assistant because, when required, she could unleash an attitude to keep anyone—from a donor, to a client, to a colleague, to a delivery man—meek and quiet.

"Yeah, well we _live _here. We want to talk to Donna!"

Annabeth slipped past the desk and opened the door leading into Donna's office. It was a tiny room, cramped and crowded full of file cabinets and stacks of papers, but at least the desk was immaculate—probably the work of Maya as well.

"…want to be kept in the loop. This is serious business, Commissioner…" Donna was frowning, her normally friendly blue eyes now little more than flints of ice. She was gripping the phone with her right hand, making notes with her fountain pen in the other. Occasionally she would pause, tapping the pen against her desk, quickly, sharply. She was agitated—not angry, just vaguely annoyed. "We refer these women to you, Gordon, or else we work with agencies that do, and we expect you to _do your job."_

Annabeth sat down. Donna caught her eye, twisted her mouth into a grimace, and then, casually, while the Commissioner was still talking, she hung up on him. "Jackass."

"Donna, _what happened?"_

The older woman gestured to the stack of newspapers that Maya had placed at the corner of her desk, along with a tall mug of coffee. Annabeth gazed with woeful longing at the mug until Donna moved it out of her reach. "I'm sure you saw. Carrolly Cooper was killed this morning."

"Killed?"

"Okay, maybe _killed _isn't the right word. I think _bludgeone _or perhaps _beaten to a pulp _would be a little more accurate. Any rate, it happened this morning, in her apartment. Sounds like whoever it was, got in through the window leading out onto the fire escape."

Annabeth buried her head in her hands. "I spoke with her at the hospital six weeks ago…I was the one that told her to go to the police. To talk. To bring evidence against the Arrows."

Donna frowned absently. "Why does that gang call itself 'the Arrows' anyway? It's a kind of silly name."

Annabeth lifted her head. "Because whatever they do points straight to the Narrows. The members call themselves Archers. Almost…Robin Hood-esque when you think about it. Anyway, this is awful. Poor Carrolly."

"Poor Commissioner Gordon, more like. This sets him back god only knows how far. He's been investigating them for a while now…since Marone and Falconi and their gangs were brought down, the Arrows have been the next major contenders…but the way they've been hemorrhaging women, that might not last." Donna shook her head. "You'd think those thugs would learn—treat your women right, and maybe they won't go to the cops. Instead they beat them up, whore them out, and whoops! Now your woman's singing to anyone who will listen."

Sometimes, it caught Annabeth by surprise, how callous her boss could be. Listening to her, sometimes, you'd forget she was the founder of one of Gotham's many women's crisis centers. You'd forget that she spent her days—and many of her nights—struggling to save the women and children that Gotham had forgotten. Of course, Donna was a business woman, first and foremost—she had to be, to make sure that Safe Haven stayed afloat in a city as awful as this one. But still—she could be as insensitive as any CEO or businessman, and as hard-headed, and ballsy, too.

"That's the third woman, right?" Annabeth asked, even though she already knew.

"Yup. The first two—well, you know them. You referred them to Gordon. Now Gordon's telling me you referred this Carrolly to him, too?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Annabeth cried in frustration. "We were full here when I encountered Carrolly…And we need to bring down the gangs. Jesus, they're usually the ones that create the lives that our women are trying to get away from." She shook her head, remembering Carrolly, and before her, Lizzie Salvadore and Jeana Wilson. Jeana and Lizzie had come to Safe Haven, wanting help; Carrolly had just been one of the victims she encountered at the hospital. She had encouraged all three of them to talk to Gordon., even though they hadn't wanted to. But they had done so, finally, and Gordon put them into protective custody. And now they were dead. Each of them, killed in the same way.

"No one's blaming you, Annabeth. This is what you're supposed to do. It's the right thing to do—someone else out there is doing the wrong thing. Someone else is betraying these women. Someone they trust."

Both of them fell silent, listening to the wind and the rain pelting the windows, and the babble of the women clustered beyond the door. When Donna spoke again, her voice was quieter, gentle. "Annabeth. You counseled all three of those women. At least, I'm assuming you counseled Carrolly. You referred them to Gordon. You did the right thing…but you know they're going to want to question you. Is there anything you want to tell me?"

The look that Annabeth gave her boss was one of righteous outrage._"Excuse me?"_

"Don't get huffy, Annabeth. You know I am _not _asking you if you sold those girls out. I know you better than that. But it's always possible, however remotely, that somehow, you may have mentioned something, some small detail, to someone, however inadvertently. If you can think of anything you may have mentioned to anyone by accident, _t__ell me. _Not just about these women, but about any that you help. _Tell me. _We can figure it out. Hell, we can get you a lawyer, if you need one."

"No." Annabeth shook her head fiercely, never taking her eyes off of Donna. "I don't discuss my clients with people. The only reason you know about Jeana and Lizzie is because they spent time here. I don't compromise confidentiality, or morals, or ethics."

"Okay, okay, calm down. I believe you. I know what these women mean to you, Annabeth. Calm down."

There was a discreet knock on the door, and a moment later, Maya poked her head in. "Are you ready to come out? I think about the entire house is out here."

Donna sighed. "We'd better get out there. Those women are spooked, and maybe they've got a reason. Maybe more than a few of them have had brushes with the Arrows over the years…Maya, why don't you call security and have them send out a few more people? Come on, Annabeth." She rose, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her suit. "Let's go soothe the natives." She crossed the office, and smiled at Annabeth. "It's going to be fine."

A bolt of lighting flashed outside the window, and thunder rumbled ominously. Overhead, the lights flickered and dimmed for a moment—and Annabeth wondered how many more omens were coming their way. Because something was telling her that nothing about this mess would be fine for a very, very long time.

While Annabeth was dealing with the worst Monday of her career, and wishing she had never heard of Gotham City—let alone been born there—a very different day was unfolding twenty miles away, in the Palisades. Bruce Wayne slumbered, completely unaware of the drama unfolding within the city. His was a deep sleep, uninterrupted by dreams, brought on by the exhaustion of a hard night's work, and long after the stormy morning had marched into an equally stormy afternoon, he still slept. The only sign of life in Wayne Manor was the faithful butler Alfred, who puttered about, intent on various minor chores. But by three PM, Alfred had quite simply grown bored, and decided it was time to wake the master of the house.

"Master Wayne."

"Mrrrrph."

"Master Wayne." Alfred's voice became a little more insistent as an edge of annoyance crept into it. "It's time to rise, Master Wayne."

Slowly, Bruce opened one bleary eye. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

"Seeing as how you keep me up until six, most mornings? _Enjoy _is putting it mildly." Alfred set down the tray he had been carrying and picked up the newspaper that he had wedged between the tea pot and the marmalade. Tossing the papers onto Bruce's blanketed form, he added, "You should wake up…there's an entertaining piece about you in the Society section." He meandered over to the windows, pulling the heavy velvet drapes back, and gazed out at the stormy day. "You may as well read it, as it appears as though there's little else to do."

He turned back around to watch the younger man sit up and reach for the newspaper. From the look that Bruce gave Alfred, it was clear that he secretly suspected that Alfred took a perverse pleasure in calling his attention to the more lurid tabloid stories about him. They both knew, however, that as difficult as the tabloids were, well…in this case, the truth certainly was more stranger than fiction. Or, judging by the mass of bruises and maze of scars on Bruce's body, at least much more painful.

_**Billion-dollar Boredom: Too Much Money, Too Little Sense**_

_**By Vicki Vale**_

_"It's often speculated that a fool and his money are soon parted, but what about a billionaire and his good reputation? Granted, since his remarkable return to Gotham, playboy Bruce Wayne has seemed singularly unconcerned with establishing a good reputation, let alone protecting it, but the events over this past weekend certainly do not do much to flatter young Bruce Wayne. Ingrid Sorenson, a young Danish model recently seen about town in the company of Bruce Wayne, was apprehended and detained at London's Heathrow Airport on Friday evening, and later arrested for possession of cocaine. While authorities are still investigating the circumstances, it would appear that Ms. Sorenson was acting alone, and so Mr. Wayne is guilty only by association—but perhaps that is enough. Following on the heels of the tragic fire that laid waste to Wayne Manor eighteen months ago—and allegedly ignited by a drunken Wayne—and the more recent scandal surrounding his personal acquisition of an illegal emu farm in Westchester County, this will do nothing to enhance Wayne's reputation as an upstanding Gotham citizen. And if he carries on much longer, it might not enhance his empire's financial standing, either."_

Bruce looked up, his face a mask of dismay. "I thought that we took care of the emu farm!"

"_That's _the part of the story that bothers you? The _emus?"_

Shrugging helplessly, Bruce explained. "Well, I actually do feel bad about that. I thought that the farm was completely legitimate. I had no idea that they were being bred for their hides…I thought it would make a good emu zoo."

Alfred began to wonder if one could actually _f__eel _their blood pressure rise. "Sometimes I think that your Bruce-the-fool act is starting to seep into your brain. _That's_ why you leave the philanthropy to your attorneys, Master Bruce. No, I'm talking about the Danish floozy, that Ingrid girl. She was here, at the _M__anor…_what if she had those drugs here? Think of the disaster that could have been! You need to be seen out and about, yes, but why not with a more respectable lady? Someone like Miss Ra-"

The dark look that Bruce threw at him silenced Alfred for a moment. "You're the one that _told _me I needed to date movie stars and models."

"Forget what I say, sir. Merely the ramblings of a doddering sexagenarian."

Bruce had already set aside the paper and was consuming his energy drink. After finishing it off with a satisfied grunt, he set the drained glass by the mahogany bedstand and began to rise. "I won't associate with her any more, Alfred. Don't worry. But there's more important things to worry about—you know what happened last night?"

Alfred nodded. "I saw the newspaper, too. That poor girl."

"I know. She's the third, and I am willing to bet that she won't be the last. Someone is leaking somewhere." Bruce frowned, remembering the bloodied remains of Carrolly. "What an awful way to go…she must have been terrified."

"What do you propose, sir?"

Bruce headed into the bathroom, and a moment later, Alfred heard the shower running. A pair of boxers, followed by a shirt, sailed out the door and landed in a heap on the floor—on the priceless Persian rugs Alfred had ordered less than two months ago. Bruce's voice floated out, above the sound of the running water. "Gordon gave me copies of all the files on her, and the other women. We'll go down to the caves in a bit, see what we can turn up."

* * *

Deep within the Batcave, all was silent. The two men sat at a long work table, looking over the files, papers, and photographs spread out before them. Alfred's countenance was unchanged: serene and unruffled, his world-weary eyes giving away nothing as he read through the papers detailing three tragically wasted, cut-short lives. For all that his face gave away, he could have been preparing tea, or arranging flowers instead of delving into this world of horrors.

Unlike his old friend Alfred, Bruce Wayne _did _change. As soon as he entered this space, an entire identity slipped away, left behind upstairs in the grandeur and luxury of his family home. When he entered this space, Bruce left Bruce behind, and became only the Batman. It was not merely a character switch, but a shifting of consciousness—all the things that Bruce Wayne thought about were left behind, and so not only his personality shifted, but his awareness and perception. Rachel had once said that Bruce Wayne was the mask, and Batman was his true personality, but Bruce didn't want to believe that. But he did believe that he had to leave Bruce behind when he became the Batman. It was perhaps nothing more than a way to preserve his sanity—if there was in fact any left, as Alfred so often gleefully pondered.

And so it was Batman, and not Bruce, who read through the information Gordon had given him.

In life, Jeana Wilson had been little more than a typically misguided and rebellious teenager. She had fallen into the street life like so many of her peers, and somehow had been seduced into joining the Arrows when she was seventeen. According to the files that the Batman now held in his hands, she had been in the Arrows for only six months before catching the eye of Michael Donzetti, one of the high-level cronies. Donzetti was a lout of the highest order—44 years old, overweight, and had a taste for women, fine wine, and violence. He had been in the Arrows since the beginning, when his friend Jones le Blanc had first started consolidating power and earning the respect of the right people. When the other mobs had fallen, the Arrows finally began to rise, having been considered too insignificant to be involved with the big players, and so escaping the notice of the Joker. Now Jones was on the top of the heap, and Donzetti had benefited from the loyalty—and muscle—he had given over the years.

Jeana, however, had not benefited from his muscle. According to the medical records, she had started coming to Gotham General months ago. The first visit was for stitches above the right eye. The second visit was to treat two cracked ribs. Third visit was a broken wrist. The fourth, and final, visit came just over four weeks ago—she had been badly beaten, with a concussion and two more cracked ribs. And, as it turned out, a miscarriage.

The Batman studied the picture in her file—she had been heart-rendingly young, both in appearance and age. The streets hadn't yet aged her, and so her strawberry blonde hair, her wide-set eyes, her upturned nose, and her dimples still retained their air of sweet innocence. She had been eighteen when she died, killed just like Carrolly Erickson had been—beaten to death.

Alfred was looking over her medical records, and her police statements, too. "It says here that after the miscarriage a trauma counselor at Gotham General met with her. Shortly thereafter, she entered a shelter, where they had encouraged her to contact Gordon, see about going into witness protection in exchange for testimony."

The Batman didn't answer; had moved on to Lizzie Salvadore's file, which contained an equally sad story and abrupt end. Lizzie had been twenty-five when she was killed; she, too, had gone to a shelter and then into protective custody after she arrived at the hospital, badly hurt after a particularly violent sexual encounter. Judging by the medical records, Lizzie had not enjoyed the same level of comfort Jeana had; like Carrolly, she had been one of the generic women in the gang, no one man's girl in particular. As sad and pitiful as it was, Jeana's had been the enviable position—if a girl caught the eye of one of the men, and became "his girl", no other man would try to mess with her. Lizzie hadn't had the luck of Jeana, and she had been available for any man in the Arrows. And so it was in that fashion that Lizzie had learned more than was safe for her-she had been too observant for her own good, and had seen and overheard too much, enough to provide damaging testimony against le Blanc if the time ever came.

"Alfred…" the Batman frowned for a moment, running his hand through his hair. He then scratched his chin in thought, and went back to the records. "Who were the trauma counselors? The ones that referred them to Gordon?"

"Let me see…oh yes, here it is. Hmmm. It was the same counselor both times. Her name's Annabeth de Burgh." Alfred passed the file along to the Batman, knowing that he had found something. "What is it?"

"It's the same trauma counselor…the same one who referred Jeana also referred Lizzie." The Batman stood up abruptly and strode over to Carrolly's files. He was on to something. After a moment's rifling through the various folders and papers, he found the hospital records and confirmed his suspicions. "Carrolly was referred to Gordon by a trauma counselor, too. The same one…Annabeth de Burgh."

Alfred and the Batman regarded each other for a moment, and then Alfred spoke. "It's very likely Gordon has noticed this already. It's too obvious to ignore."

The Batman nodded. "I'm sure he has. He'll probably question her. But it's better for us to privately investigate her anyway." He began to pace. "We need to find out about this de Burgh woman. Alfred, see what you can get on her—name, family, income. Employers. Criminal records."

"What are you thinking, Master Bruce?"

"I'm thinking the Batman would like to find out more about this woman. And so would Bruce Wayne."


	3. Chapter 3

Like so many of the cafés in Gotham City, the one two blocks from Safe Haven, Inc. was nothing special: the same bland décor, the same café fare as anywhere else, with only its cheap prices to recommend it. These cheap prices, as well as the proximity to her work, were what had sold Annabeth on it since her very first week working at Safe Haven. And it was actually a bit of a safe haven for her, too—whenever work got too overwhelming, the café always was a great escape. Between those escapes, and her frequent pre-work breakfasts there—much like the one she was having currently—she ended up spending a great deal of her off-hours there.

"They should just start automatically deducting a portion from my paycheck," Annabeth mused as she tapped a package of sugar into her coffee. "Or at least let me set up some sort of pre-paid account." She smiled grimly across the table at her best friend, Janey. "I don't like to think of how much money I invest in this dive."

"And yet you keep coming back," Janey laughed, her big brown eyes sparkling mischievously. She was dressed in scrubs, ready for another day of work in the emergency room. Even the baggy, obnoxiously-patterned scrubs couldn't detract from her prettiness; Janey had a sweet, open countenance, a ready grin, and a determinedly cheerful attitude that just compelled everyone, man and woman alike, to secretly fall in love with her, just a little. She and Annabeth had known each other for years, and Janey had no problems seeing through Annabeth's quirks and hang-ups. "Admit it, Annabeth, you love this place because other than me, these folks are your only friends."

Glancing around the café, Annabeth had to admit that Janey had a point. Madison Rose, the token crazy homeless woman that hung around their block of Madison, was hunkered down in a booth, gripping her cup of tea; she paused long enough in her conversations with her invisible companions to give Annabeth a cheerful wave. Joe, the morbidly obese but incredibly fatherly owner of the café, flashed them a grin, and quietly motioned for his daughter Sara to come around with another pot of coffee.

Janey reached over and swiped a bite from Annabeth's stack of pancakes. "You need to get out more."

"Why? So I can be suspected of selling out everyone to whichever wifebeating gangbanger is lurking on my block that day? If I get out more, all that means is _more _trouble."

Swallowing the bite of pancakes and chasing it down with a gulp of orange juice, Janey gave her a knowing look before speaking. "You're really pissed off about that, aren't you?"

"_Hell yes _I am!" Annabeth grew agitated all over again as she recalled Donna's searching looks and pointed questions the day before. "Janey, I'd die for these women. I'd die rather than see them get hurt. Someone's hurting them, and the irony is that _I'm _a suspect! Donna thinks I let something slip to someone by accident."

"Well, she has to cover her bases, too. But I know you, and I know you didn't let anything slip. Hell, you never even mentioned to me that you were working with those women, and I helped treat them in the emergency room. It wasn't until Gordon came around yesterday, investigating, and I took a look at their medical records, that I knew you had been involved." Janey shook her head, and glanced at her watch. "Crap, I've gotta book. I've got a split shift today, and the first one starts in half an hour. If I leave now, I'll just make it on time." She stood, digging through her voluminous pockets, and extracted a wad of singles. "You're on duty tonight, too, right?"

Annabeth nodded. "Yup. I work until one AM."

"Awesome. That's when I get off, too. I'll see you later?" Janey bent over and kissed the top of Annabeth's head, quickly, before Annabeth had a chance to shy away. "It'll be fine. Gordon will get around to questioning you—pretty soon, I bet—he'll ask a few questions, and figure out damned quick that you're not going to add up to the number he's looking for. Gordon's a smart guy. Don't worry."

Never one to waste time, Janey sailed out the door, quietly dropping a couple of dollars on Madison Rose's table as she passed by. Annabeth watched her best friend as she blended into the crowds of Gotham, wishing for a moment that she had some of Janey's good cheer and sweet personality. But no, Janey was Janey—happy and sweet, and Annabeth was Annabeth—a little cold, a little too dedicated. But her heart was in the right place. She meant well.

"Not like that's a nice thing to say at someone's funeral euology, though," Annabeth grumbled to no one in particular as she gathered up her briefcase and jacket.

"That's right, dear! Start talking to them, they always listen!" Madison Rose called out encouragingly, much to the amusement of Joe, Sara, and about half a dozen regulars who would spend their meal speculating on Rose's and Annabeth's imaginary friends.

Outside, the weather was remarkably clear and pleasant for August; the previous day's storm had temporarily washed away the smog and grime that plagued Gotham City at this time of year…and most times of year, to be honest. It was a filthy, crowded city, and there really wasn't many other ways to put it. But today, the air was a little bit clearer, the sun was a little more golden, and everything felt just a little bit more fresh. Annabeth chose to see it as a good omen, and squared her shoulders resolutely as she began the two-block walk to Safe Haven. Yesterday had been a nightmare, between the news of Carrolly's death, Donna's suspicions, and the women's fears, and she had returned home that night feeling as though someone had ripped out her heart and was poking it with a stick. Today could be better. Today _would _be better.

* * *

But as it turned out, today was going to be much, much worse.

Half an hour—that's all Annabeth had gotten. Half an hour of peace, in which she sat at her cluttered, tiny desk and planned out her day: two hours of grant-writing in the morning; counseling appointments until one; another hour of tracking down potential donors; then spending the rest of the afternoon interviewing intern candidates. She sipped at the coffee Maya had thoughtfully brewed for her, and peacefully contemplated all the things she would get done that day…and then her phone rang.

"This is Annabeth."

"Annabeth. Have a moment to meet with me?" Donna had the courtesy to couch it as a question, but neither woman would consider the possibility of Annabeth declining. Annabeth was in fact already rising to her feet and gathering her planner. "I'll be over in a minute or two." Annabeth cast one longing look at her mug of coffee, and returned the phone to its receiver. Eight in the morning, and the boss already wanted to meet with her. Something told Annabeth that the cup of evil Mondays had begun to runneth over into other, more innocent days of the week.

Donna's office was only at the other end of the hall, and so it didn't take Annabeth long to enter Donna's office, her stomach fluttering in dread. Donna glanced up from her computer, and jerked her chin over to the only empty seat in the room. "Sit down."

Annabeth sat.

Without further preamble, Donna launched into business. "I've got some really rotten news. A bit of it, actually. And some good news. Which do you want to hear first?"

"The bad news." Annabeth's response was immediate, and corresponded with one of the fundamentals of her existence: Get the bad news over with, then seen how much good news there is, and how much it can salvage.

"Bad news item one: the state is pulling our Trauma Grant."

A guttural moan emerged from deep within Annabeth. The Trauma Grant was their single biggest source of money, and losing it would be a trauma, indeed. "Why?"

"Budget cuts are the original culprit. The state's damned near broke and looking to save money. They're saying that since we aren't primarily a trauma interception agency, only a trauma recovery agency, we don't qualify. It's a blow, alright." Donna frowned. "And now, time for the next bad news. You need to clear your schedule for a while… Commissioner Gordon and one of his detectives are going to come by today to speak with you, around nine. In fact…in less than an hour. But we knew this would happen. Just tell them the truth, and it will be fine."

Annabeth sighed. "Okay, then…what's the good news?"

"Oh yes!" Donna brightened considerably. "We've got a potential donor…a very big fish."

"A donor?" Annabeth's hopes lifted a little. "This could offset the damage from the loss of the Trauma Grant. Who is it?"

Donna was practically bursting with excitement. "Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce Wayne." Annabeth reached into her memory, sifted through vital information to get to the useless information that insisted on residing long past its use-by date. "Where do I know that name from? Wasn't that guy in the papers recently?"

"Probably."

"Oh yeah! Wasn't he that rich guy that totally messed up his car a few months back—ran his Ferrari or something into a police van?"

"That sounds like him. But I actually think it was a Lamborghini."

"And wasn't there something…something about him and a bunch of emus?"

"Bought an illegal emu farm, yes."

Dismay was beginning to build inside Annabeth. "I remember him now…he burnt down his house a year or two back, didn't he? We're talking about that guy?"

"_Allegedly _burnt down his house, and yes, that is who we are talking about."

"So…" Annabeth said slowly, trying to buy some time. "You're saying that we should be soliciting donations from an over-moneyed pyromaniac billionaire who has a thing for emus and who never passed the driving test?"

"Very funny, and yes, that's _exactly _what I am saying." Donna leaned forward, a smile playing on her lips, her eyes alight with the possibilities. "Listen to me, Annabeth. Bruce Wayne's a loose cannon, yes. He's dumb as a brick, yes, and the newspapers love to mock him. But he's also _very _rich, _very _generous, and _very _bored. And his Foundation initiated contact with _us, _wanting to discuss donor possibilities. Now, I don't care if he's screwing those emus in the back seat of his Lamborghini, and I don't care how many houses he torches. I don't care if he gives us money by crapping it on your desk. But I want the support of the Wayne Foundation, and I want you to be the one to secure it."

"You hate me, don't you?" Annabeth said plaintively.

"On the contrary, Annabeth, I adore you. That's why I am giving you the opportunity to meet with Wayne, and to be instrumental in securing the future of Safe Haven. This is an amazing chance, for you and for us! Bruce Wayne wants to meet with us personally, and learn about Safe Haven."

"Donna. Think for a moment. Have I _ever _been able to play nicely with rich people?"

"All the more reason for you to start. I have total confidence in you, Annabeth. You've been here long enough, you know the organization well enough, so it's time you learn to play nicely with the rich kids. It'll be fine. Wayne will be showing up around eleven this morning…take him out to that café you love, make us seem as humble and poor as possible…which won't be hard. Bring him back here, give him the tour, introduce him to some of the clients. I've secured permission from several of the women, you can tell their stories. Make it as sad-sounding as possible. Again, not difficult."

"Why can't you do it?" Annabeth was coming dangerously close to whining, but dammit, she didn't care. This was awful.

"Let's just say that I've had to deal with my share of the rich kids, Annabeth." Donna gave her a feral smile. "They're tired of me, and my methods. Time to pass it on to a new generation."

There was a knock on Donna's door, and Maya poked her head inside. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's someone here for Annabeth. Commissioner Gordon? He says he has a meeting with Annabeth at nine, and that he's a little early. You want me to send him on in?"

"Go ahead and send him in!" Donna said cheerfully. And, glancing over at Annabeth, added "…and bring in some aspirin and water, too."

By 10:30, Annabeth was already exhausted. She glanced at her watch—an ancient Timex that she had had owned since she was fifteen, and never got around to replacing—and wondered, briefly, if Donna was doing this for her own amusement. Knowing Donna and her slightly-twisted sense of humor, she'd probably arrange for Wayne to come in, leading an emu and asking for them to give it shelter.

One bright thing: the interview with Commissioner Gordon had gone as easily as Janey had predicted. He had been annoyingly early, but at least it meant that the whole ordeal was over that much faster. The Commissioner had been respectful; if not friendly, then at least cordial. Annabeth had taken in his weathered, lined face, his kindly eyes, and felt instantly at ease. She had heard he was a good cop, honest and ethical, and he certainly came across that way. So too did Detective Montoya—she was a woman about Annabeth's age, all business and strictly professional. Annabeth related to that, and so had unexpectedly warmed to her.

Gordon had apologized right away. "I don't think you're involved. We've got to go back over all the evidence, though, and try to find out where this leak is. You don't know how sorry I am about what happened to those wome-"

"_Those women _were human beings, Commissioner. And I bet you didn't even know them, or know what they were like, or what they wanted. The only reason they came on your radar at all was because they were useful to you and your agenda."

He ducked his head, reluctantly acknowledging her point. "You're right."

That took some of the wind out of her sails, but it didn't stop her altogether. She probably wouldn't ever have the Commissioner as a captive audience again, so what the hell? "Maybe if you spent more time cutting crime off at its roots, instead of putting out all these goddamn fires, you and I would both have easier jobs."

Montoya, who was sitting beside Gordon, began to shift in her seat, clearly resenting the attack. "How about we just get on with the questions? Everyone here has a busy day today."

And so Gordon had begun, prompting her for a description of her encounters and interactions with Carrolly, Lizzie, and Jeana. "Lizzie and Jeana, I met through my work as a trauma counselor at the hospital. I encouraged them to come to Safe Haven, and then as I learned more about them, I put them in contact with you. They had no love lost for the Arrows at that point. Jeana was really upset about the miscarriage. And Lizzie…well, you figure out what happens when several men do to one woman in the course of a night."

"Anyone here at Safe Haven could have seen them, known about them. They could have talked to any of the other people here." Gordon furrowed his brow as he contemplated the possibilities.

"Yes. I'd like to think they weren't that foolish, but there's certainly that possibility. And we get plenty of people just passing through here, a few days at a time."

"After you referred them to me, did you tell anyone else about Lizzie and Jeana?"

"Except for Donna, no. But I _did _tell Donna; it wasn't a case of violating confidentiality. Any woman who steps through these doors, we start a file on them, regardless of whether or not they stay. I informed Donna of what had taken place with Jeana and Renee so that we could add it to their files."

"No one else? You didn't mention them to anyone?"

Annabeth began to think longingly of the aspirin that Maya had brought in. Two hadn't done the trick—maybe the whole bottle would. "No, Commissioner. While it might be a rarity in this city, I am a trained, ethical professional, and I am not about to sell out to the highest bidder. They couldn't afford me, anyway."

Montoya leaned forward. "Yeah? What are you charging?"

"The price of my conscience. No one could afford me."

"Moving along." Gordon flipped through his notes. "Carrolly Cooper. Tell me more about how you first met her?"

"She first came into the ER with several of her teeth knocked out. Someone had beaten her up _really _badly. One of the ER nurses suspected domestic abuse, and while I wasn't needed in my capacity of a Trauma Counselor, the nurse thought I might be able to bring her in to Safe Haven. Eventually, she told me more about her…circumstances. And I figured I should get her in touch with you."

"And did you tell anyone about Carrolly's connections with the Arrows?"

"No," Annabeth sighed. "I never forget these women and children, but I sure as hell don't go blabbing about them either."

Gordon and Montoya glanced at each other, and as of one accord, they stood up. "Thank you, Miss de Burgh," Gordon said, extending his hand. "I believe there's nothing more we can learn from you. You did all you could to help these women, and we want to continue working with you."

"That's very kind of you, Commissioner. But given the death rate of your charges, I can't say that I am keen to continue working with you." Annabeth gave him a twisted smile, almost more of a grimace. "See, unlike you, it's in our interests to keep these women alive long after the trials. I'm not sure you and I are striving towards the same end."

No, the interview certainly could have gone a lot worse. But Annabeth's patience was quickly coming to the end of her tether, and she wasn't at all confident that she would be able to charm that Wayne guy into parting with his money. At this point, she wasn't even sure she could charm herself into believing this job was worth it.

For a few moments after Gordon and Montoya left, she stood by her desk, gazing out the window at the back alley two stories below, reflecting on how it would be nice for the children to have an outdoors space where they could play. She glanced at the clock—10:40. Twenty minutes left; twenty minutes to herself. What did she have time for? A quick cup of coffee? Checking in with some of the clients? Ingest all the painkillers she could find? Commit _seppuku_?

Her phone rang. Wearily, Annabeth looked heavenwards—apparently she didn't have the time to die today. The phone rang again, and she snatched it. "Yes?"

"Annabeth? It's Maya. Your eleven o'clock is here."

"My eleven o'clock? It's ten-forty!" Annabeth's voice began to rise in irritation. "First Gordon, now Wayne? Jesus, Maya, he's a billionaire playboy—can't you distract him for a few minutes? You know how to flirt. And jesus! _Does no one ever come on time anymore?"_

"Apparently not."

Annabeth whirled around at the sound of an unfamiliar male voice filling her office, and saw a young man standing in the doorway. From the phone Annabeth still clutched in her hand, she could hear Maya's sheepish voice "…I told him he could go on in."

Slowly, deliberately, Annabeth replaced the receiver and walked slowly from behind her desk. In the two seconds it took for her to pick her way around the various boxes and stacks of files, Bruce watched her compose herself, transform herself from harried and frazzled social worker to unflustered professional. "Mr. Wayne…welcome to Safe Haven. Thank you for visiting us today. It's quite an honor." She looked straight into his eyes, extended her hand, and gripped his. Three firm pumps, and then she withdrew quickly, backing up a couple of feet and putting the desk as a barrier between them.

Bruce smiled; when it came to being smooth and unflustered, this woman had nothing on him. "Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice. And call me Bruce. 'Mr. Wayne' makes me sound far too much like a boring forty-year old who discusses the stock market and partisan politics."

"Neither of which are your forté ?" Annabeth wanted to smack herself as soon as she said it, and mentally began to write her letter of resignation. Better to quit before Donna could fire her.

"Let's just say my talents lie in other areas. I'm much better at being a…how did you put it? A 'billionaire playboy'? Yes, I'm much better at that." Bruce was needling her now, trying to see if he could discomfit her. He quietly observed her as she made her way back to her desk. Relatively young—early thirties, tops. Fairly short, barely topping five feet, with well-proportioned curves. Chestnut-colored hair, very similar in color to Rachel's—ruthlessly he stamped down a surge of sadness—with brown eyes. Attractive, in a rather flavorless sort of way. Very girl-next-door.

"Have a seat, Mr. Wayne." She sat back down behind her desk and gestured to the chair opposite. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about your interest in Safe Haven?"

_Oh, she's good. _Bruce was grudgingly impressed—she had somehow turned the entire encounter around to make him feel as though he were the supplicant. He sat down and gave her a goofy smile. Time to ham up the dunce persona. "I have quite a bit of money, you know. And my parents always taught me I should help those less fortunate. After all, not everyone can be born a Wayne."

_Oh, goddamn you, Donna. You will pay. _With a supreme effort, Annabeth ignored his tactless condescension.

"And I just like to know a bit about the organizations that work in our city. Someone mentioned your organization a couple of months back—I think I was at some fundraiser dinner, can't remember what it was for. But the food was actually really good! There were these _amazing _tapas h_ors d'oeuvre thingies_ , just like the kind that I used to have in Andalusia…anyway, this beautiful woman…what was her name? anyway, she was raving _all _about you." He nodded his head eagerly. "I think it's great, what you do. And I want to help."

_If nothing else, this will be a great story to tell Janey someday. _"How altruistic of you, Mr. Wayne. We can always use more help. In fact, quite a lot, actually. What all do you know about us?"

"Ummm…" Bruce glanced around, ostensibly trying to catch sight of a letterhead, something to reveal the nature of the business. "You're a battered women's shelter, right?"

Annabeth smiled at him through gritted teeth. "In a sense. It's part of what we do, certainly. But it's also much, much more." She stood up again, simultaneously digging through a pile of papers. "Would you like to see?"

This time, Bruce did not have to feign his interest. He nodded eagerly.

"Good. But before I take you around, I'm going to need for you to sign some papers."

"Papers?" Bruce looked confused. "What kind of papers?"

"Legal papers. Confidentiality agreements." She held out the papers and a pen.

"What do they say?"

"Basically, that you understand that anything and everything you may learn today is confidential information, and that revealing this information to third parties can put peoples' lives and personal safety at risk. That if you do reveal any information, we will have legal recourse to sue you, and also that we can, with impunity, rip off your testicles." She paused. "And feed them to the emus."

"Where do I sign?"


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm going to give you a pretty complete tour," Annabeth told him. "Any questions you have, just ask. I can't promise that I can answer them, but I'll try. I'm going to introduce you to the staff, such as we are. And I'll also introduce you to some of our clients here."

"Why do you call them 'clients'?"

Annabeth said simply, "_C__lient _is a dignified word. It gives them more dignity than 'welfare recipient' or 'victim' or 'battered woman.' These women and children, they need dignity, and they need to learn to demand it for themselves. The second they walk through those doors, they're under our protection, and that means that we help them achieve the dignity that they've been denied."

She led him out of her office, and down the hall to the elevator. A moment later, they stepped inside; Annabeth positioned herself in the corner farthest from Bruce. "We'll start from the street level and work our way up."

Bruce glanced over at her, not failing to notice that she was certainly keeping her distance from him. "Don't like elevators?"

Annabeth gritted her teeth and lied. "I'm claustrophobic." Conveniently, the doors slid open, saving her from any more intrusive questions.

They stepped out into the waiting room. "Why isn't anyone here?" Bruce asked.

"The waiting room is really just a front," Annabeth told him. "Safe Haven is, officially, a Women's Issues Consulting Firm, which is a big, fat lie. The women that come here don't make appointments, they're not here for _consultation, _and they don't have the luxury of waiting_. _They're here because they need help." She led him out to the lobby, where Thomas was sitting. "Thomas, this is Mr. Wayne. Mr. Wayne, our daytime security guard, Thomas."

Bruce reached over and shook Thomas's hand. "So, you're what...like…a rent-a-cop?"

Thomas grinned good-naturedly. "Hell, no. Rent-a-cops are wusses."

That was all Thomas would say, but after studying him for a moment, Bruce was fairly certain the security guard was packing a lot more protection than a taser. What the hell kind of outfit _was _this, anyway?

As if she had heard his thoughts, Annabeth explained. "The women and the families that come here are usually in some sort of danger. Sometimes they're just terrified young women, being stalked; sometimes it's mothers who have run away with their children, and they know the dads are going to come looking for them. And sometimes their men are just…_evil. _And we have to make sure they're protected."

And so the tour went, Annabeth taking him through the various levels of the beautiful old brownstone, showing various rooms and offices, explaining, talking, showing. Her voice grew hoarse, but since Bruce Wayne wasn't saying anything—_thank goodness—_she kept talking.

"So the delivery room and some storage are in the basement. The first floor is the lobby and the faux-waiting room. The second level contains all our offices and storage rooms. And here's the third floor—the common floor." Annabeth led Bruce out of the elevator and into a long corridor. "I'm going to take you into the library; you're going to meet a few of the clients." She held open a door. "After you."

Bruce stepped inside. When Annabeth said _library, _she hadn't been kidding. The room was enormous. All of the walls were lined with bookcases, crammed with books. There were several small worktables scattered throughout, as well as a few shabby armchairs. In the middle of the room was a long work table. "This is where a lot of the classes take place," she told him.

"Classes?"

"We have an adult literacy tutor who comes in several times a week. We also have a computer tutor, a life skills coach, and a Parenting Counselor."

"Why?"

Annabeth was on firm ground here. She had explained this to many people, many times, and this was her cause. "A lot of our clients end up here because they were never adequately equipped for life to begin with—roughly forty percent of our clients are functionally illiterate. And even if they are able to read and write, usually they just don't have enough education to get by in a competitive workforce, particularly these days. Safe Haven is more than a battered women's shelter—think of it as a halfway house. Our clients come here for shelter and protection and help in becoming self-sufficient."

Bruce nodded. "That makes sense to me."

She led him to the work table. "Have a seat. _And don't touch anything._I'll be back in a moment." Annabeth spun around on her heel and exited the room, leaving Bruce to gather his thoughts. Playing dumb was really rather exhausting, and it was hard to continuously dissemble to people as sharp as Annabeth. But regardless, he was learning something—

His thoughts were interrupted as the door opened again, and Annabeth returned, leading a group of people. Six women, three children. They stared at Bruce, and he stared right back.

"Missy," Annabeth said gently to the woman nearest to her. "This is Mr. Wayne. He wants to know about some of the folks that come in here. You want to tell him a little about yourself?"

The woman nodded, and sat down across from Bruce. Following her lead, the other women and children sat, too. Annabeth positioned herself by the door.

The room was silent.

"Hi, Missy," Bruce finally said. "It's alright that I call you Missy?"

The woman nodded. She was very nervous, and her large blue eyes constantly darted about the room. Finally, she seemed to calm down, and spoke. "I came here about three months ago now."

"What brought you here?"

Annabeth frowned slightly. Bruce Wayne had altered his voice, dropping it down to a lower octave…it was almost hypnotic-sounding. Soothing, actually.

Apparently, it worked on Missy. "I was a prostitute, down in the Narrows. My pimp—he kept getting rougher and rougher with me. I wasn't making enough to keep him happy. One night, he took a switchblade, started carving me up." She pulled her hair back to reveal several faint scars along her left cheek. "Two other girls managed to pull him off of me, and I took off. I ended up in the emergency room, and one of the nurses told me to come here."

From where she stood, Annabeth prompted: "What are your plans?"

"I want to become a nurse," Missy said promptly. "That nurse in the emergency room who helped me, she was _so nice. _I can't remember the last time someone treated me like a human being. I think it would be so wonderful to save lives like that, just through basic kindness."

Annabeth walked over to Missy and squeezed her shoulder. "Right now Missy's learning basic secretarial skills, and next week we're going to put her in touch with an employment agency. Once she gets a job, we're going to get her set up with her college entrance exams, see about scholarships; once she's standing on her own, we'll see about finding her an apartment."

The woman sitting next to Missy spoke up. "It's going to be harder for you, Missy. We're really lucky." She was holding a child in her lap, a boy who couldn't be more than four or five. She turned to Bruce. "Missy's working hard to get to where she needs to be. She doesn't say much, but it's been an uphill struggle for her sometimes, I think."

"What's your name?" Bruce asked her.

"Brianna." She kissed the top of the boy's head. "This is my boy, Luke. And my daughter, Caitlin." She nodded to a girl sitting next to her.

"What brought you here?" Bruce was transfixed by the silent children. They regarded him with big, fearful eyes.

"My husband. He'd been hurting me for years…but then he started in on the kids. Caitlin…show the nice man your hands."

The girl slowly walked over to where Bruce sat, and slowly extended her arms, stretching out her tiny hands. Angry burns covered her palms and fingers. In some places, the skin was beginning to grow back, but there would be scars. Caitlin looked up at him, her eyes pools of fear and misery.

Annabeth watched him closely as he stared at Caitlin's hands, and then at Caitlin. He reached out, almost touched her hand, but then reconsidered. He turned back to Brianna. "How did that happen?"

"I was working late at school one day. Caitlin and her father were at home…he told her that she had to make dinner since I wasn't home. Caitlin didn't know how to make dinner…she's just a little girl, you know? But she tried. And of course, the food was burnt—so her father took her to the stove and pressed her hands into the hot burner. He said that she would remember not to let the food burn in the future."

"Daddy hurt Caitlin," the boy, Luke, confirmed. "And now Caitlin doesn't talk."

Brianna's voice trembled. "When I came home, I found their father drunk, passed out. I packed a bag for us, and I took Caitlin to the hospital. And I came here."

Annabeth finished the story: "Brianna's an elementary school teacher, in one of the suburbs. But she can't go back to work, because she knows her husband's looking for her. They're staying here until we can relocate them to a different city, with different identities. Once that happens, they should be okay."

A young woman in the corner spoke up. "I'm Gillian." She was beautiful, Bruce could see. Strawberry blonde hair and grey eyes. "I came here about five months ago. I'm an emancipated minor."

"Gillian's staying with us until she graduates, next summer," Annabeth informed Bruce. "She's sixteen now, and she'll be seventeen then. We helped her petition for emancipation when she came here."

"Why did you come here?" Bruce asked her.

"My parents are dead, and I lived with my aunt and uncle. My uncle's a junkie. My aunt barely makes enough to support his habit. One night, his dealers came by, looking for payment. He didn't have the money, so…" her voice caught, and she looked away, unable to meet Bruce's querying gaze. Annabeth finished for her. "Gillian's uncle gave Gillian in payment."

"You mean…?" Bruce didn't want to vocalize what he thought they were trying to say.

"Yes. The dealers raped Gillian in lieu of payment."

* * *

Slowly, the day slipped into afternoon, and early evening. Annabeth continued showing him the building—the kitchen, the common room, the dining room, the private study rooms, the infirmary. Finally, they came to roost in the playroom. Annabeth sat down at an undersized table, ignoring the amused look that Bruce gave her. After a moment of assessing the lack of adult-sized furniture, Bruce gave up and squatted down beside her. As unsubtly as possible, she scooted her chair back a few inches.

Bruce watched as Brianna's son, Luke, played with building blocks. His sister, Caitlin, hovered anxiously nearby, watching as he began to stack the blocks up, and told her a fanciful story about the castle he was building.

"The women and children who come here...is it always this awful?" Bruce finally asked.

"Usually," Annabeth sighed. "Mondays are the worst—we usually get a fresh batch of clients on Monday; the husbands and boyfriend and fathers and pimps usually get rougher by the end of the weekend."

"Have you ever had to turn anyone away?"

Annabeth closed her eyes, an ineffectual attempt to block the memories. "Yes. Twice I've had to do it, right around Christmas. It _always _gets crowded at Christmas. That particular Christmas, we were simply over-full. We could have gotten in serious trouble with the fire marshals. We normally have some contacts, informal partner agencies or sympathetic people that can take in our clients for a few days, but since it was Christmas, they were all gone, or else filled to capacity themselves. A family turns up—a mother and her three daughters. They were absolutely terrified; the father had been on a drinking binge, and was out to kill them. There was no room, and I was trying to find a place where they could go…but they left before I could."

"What happened?"

"The police found their bodies two days after Christmas. They never did find the dad."

"What about the second time?"

"That was a prostitute, Betty. She was an older woman… had to be in her fifties. I think she was just fed up with the street life. Christmas comes around, and folks get pretty desperate to make some changes. Again, we were overfull. She stayed for a meal, and then thanked us and left. She died of exposure that night. That was a really cold winter."

Bruce shook his head. "I never imagined life could be so horrible." That was a lie if ever there was one, but Annabeth didn't need to know that. Although, he had always thought of life's horrors on a larger scale—world hunger; mobs trying to keep a police force corrupt; megalomaniacs trying to purge the world of its decadence. Concentrating on the big stuff, it was easy to forget about the domestic horrors.

"There's one of our clients that you didn't meet, and that you won't meet. I won't tell you her name, or even her age, other than to say that she's a minor. She's here with us."

"What's the problem with that?"

"She's here without her parents. Unless they come here with a parent, or unless they are emancipated, we're required to turn minors over to the tender mercies of the Department of Social Services. She came to us because she was pregnant."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm still not following."

"In Gotham, if you're under the age of eighteen, you need parental consent in order to terminate the pregnancy."

"And so…? Most Gotham parents are pretty liberated, I would guess."

"In this case, it's more complicated. This girl's father is also the father of her unborn child. She's staying with us so we can find a way to get her to the more enlightened city of Metropolis."

No amount of training, discipline, or emotional distance could keep the look of revulsion off of Bruce Wayne's face. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You know, I'm really not sure," Annabeth shrugged. "I'm still not sure why you are here, so I suppose I'm trying to get a measure on you. Maybe to see how you react." She sighed, and for a brief moment, the cold exterior and defensive posture she had maintained all day began to slip, just a little bit. Bruce saw it in the slump of her shoulders, the dull look in her eyes. Annabeth was exhausted. "It's a war out there. And we have so few troops to fight it."

For a few moments, the only sound was the soft murmur of Luke's voice. After a moment, Bruce sat down on the floor beside the boy and picked up a block. "Watcha making?"

Against all odds, it seemed that Annabeth had brought in a donor. She allowed herself one brief moment to marvel at the sheer luck of it—fortunately for her, for all of his quirks and eccentricities, Bruce Wayne was a fairly amiable person. Shallow as a kiddie pool, of course, but at least he was trying. Donna would be thrilled.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted at this point as Maya darted into the room, her eyes wide. "Annabeth! Thank god! I thought you'd already left. I can't find Donna, and we need your help downstairs."

Annabeth was already on her feet. "What's wrong?"

"A new girl showed up…she's getting hysterical, and she doesn't speak English. Annabeth, it looks like she's hurt pretty bad."

The peace of the playroom was shattered. Annabeth was aware of Bruce Wayne watching her. "I'll be back when I can. _Wait here." _And like that, she was gone, following after Maya.

Wait here. Bruce could be a patient person...but only when it suited him and his agenda. And now was not one of those times. He got to his feet, gave a final smile to Caitlin and Luke, and headed after the two women. Time to do some digging.

As soon as he was certain Annabeth had left, Bruce poked his head out into the hallway and looked both ways to make sure Annabeth had left, and to make sure there were no Safe Haven clients about. It wouldn't do for anyone to catch their newest benefactor snooping. If they did, of course, Bruce could just claim that he had gotten lost—most would take that explanation in stride.

Fortunately, the hall was clear, and so he moved quickly towards the elevator, where he recalled that Annabeth used a security code to move between the floors. He paused, giving himself a moment to recollect the numbers that he had seen her punch in—good thing he had been pretending to check her out when she keyed them in. It had distracted her from the fact that he had actually been memorizing her code.

Where to go? Annabeth's office was the logical starting point, although he wondered if she would keep any incriminating information in there. Of course, he was also beginning to doubt the existence of any incriminating information, period—but he had to make sure. The elevator opened onto the second floor, and he cautiously poked his head out. Again, the hallway was clear. He checked his watch, and realized that it was almost seven in the evening. No doubt those who weren't trying to be nosy about the latest arrival were clustered around the table in the dining room.

Moving with silent swiftness, he approached her office. The door was closed and locked, but it only took a few moments of tooling about with it for the door to swing inward, without protest. Bruce smirked to himself and allowed himself to revel in his good fortune; Safe Haven may be trying to protect their client's identities, but they had to do it on limited funds. He'd have to make sure they could afford some deadbolts in the future.

The office was as cluttered as it had been when Annabeth had first invited him in that morning. He looked around quickly, taking in the shelf of textbooks, the piles of notes and papers, the stacks of files. No time to sift through any of that. He moved to her desk, the only area that was reasonably uncluttered. A few moments' rifling turned up an address book, which he swiftly pocketed, but little else. He turned his attention and efforts towards the desk drawers.

As he slid the last desk drawer closed, Bruce frowned as a thought occurred to him. What was the most telling of Annabeth's office was the _lack _of things. Specifically, her desk was completely devoid of personal items. There were no pictures, no trinkets, no objects that indicated that Annabeth had any sort of identity or existence beyond Safe Haven. Not even so much as a tube of chapstick. Which, when he thought about it, didn't say much; his desk at Wayne Towers was equally bare, although he spent a surprising amount of time there. The more he thought about it, the more confusing Annabeth became. There was more to that efficient, cold woman that met the eye, and he was willing to bet anything that she was hiding something.

Just not in her office, dammit.

When Bruce emerged back into the hallway, he became aware of a babble of voices echoing from down the hall—he heard both Maya and Annabeth, their tones low and urgent, and a third voice, higher pitched, catching with sobs. As he slowly made his way down the hall, the voices grew louder, and he saw that they were coming from one of the private meeting rooms. The door was open, and their voices spilled out into the hall.

"…called Doctor Galop; she said she'll be here in fifteen minutes."

"Poor girl." That was Annabeth. "She's terrified. I'm not even sure what language she's speaking."

"_Shoam mitooni ke komakam konid?_"

Bruce peered into the room. Maya and Annabeth were standing by one of the chairs, their backs to the doorway. A young girl sat close to them, huddled tightly against herself, rocking slowly back and forth, crying. Briefly she lifted her head to speak imploringly to the women, and Bruce felt a sharp wave of surprise, and then disgust, as he caught a good look at her face—one side bore the evidence of a severe beating; the eye swollen shut, the lip bleeding. She held her arm at an awkward angle, and he saw that it was broken.

Maya was saying to Annabeth, "It sounds like a Middle Eastern language. And she does look like she could be Arabic."

"Where could we get a translator?" Annabeth began pacing. "We can't go to Immigration. Who else?"

"What about that one girl, over at Social Services? She's pretty discreet."

"_Kami Engilisi."_

In hindsight, Bruce knew that that was the moment that changed everything, for everyone. It was the moment that he got personally involved with Safe Haven, and more to the point, it was the moment when Safe Haven got personally involved with him. Perhaps the motivation was the poor girl's pain and terror; perhaps it was his own inability to do nothing when he could do something. He could do something, and so has a moral obligation to do so. Unnoticed by either of the women, he slipped into the room and squatted down so that he was level with the girl. She regarded him with her one good eye wide with fear; brown depths swimming with tears. Up close, she looked incredibly young.

"It's Farsi," he said, almost to himself. And then, louder: "She's speaking Farsi."

"How'd he get in here?" Maya had just noticed him.

He ignored both of them, and reached for the girl's hand that wasn't broken. When he spoke, it was in the voice that Annabeth had heard him use earlier, when he was talking with the children. And when he spoke, his words caused both women to stare at him in disbelief.

"_Salam. Ese e man Bruce. Esm e shoma chist?"_

"_Esm e man Marjane Saberi. Shoam mitooni ke komakam konid_?"

Bruce turned to them. "Her name is Marjane Saberi, and she's asking for our help."

"For the first time in your life," Annabeth said, "You are going to be useful. Can you speak her language, then?"

"My Farsi's pretty rusty, but I think I can manage." Bruce flashed them his trademark grin. "I went to Princeton for a couple of semesters, and the Persian girls were incredibly cute. That's how I learned the language." _Fiction is the better part of valor._

"I want you to translate—but do it directly, first person. Ask her how old she is?"

He nodded, and turned his attention back to Marjane. "_Chand salet hast?"_

_"Shānezedeh. "_

"Sixteen." he told them for her.

Maya and Annabeth exchanged a worried look, and Bruce remembered what Annabeth had said about minors. To Marjane, he began to ask a string of questions, gently probing for her story. As soon as she began to talk, Bruce translated, the first-person words sounding almost absurd coming from him.

"I come from Tehran. I arrived here four months ago. My parents are secular Iranians, but they wanted me to have a better life. They had me smuggled into the country for an arranged marriage. My father said that life in America would be better. But he was wrong. It's much worse." Bruce paused as Marjane began crying again, her small body shuddering. "I married a man who is much older than me. He's forty-two. He's awful." She kept speaking, but Bruce fell silent.

"What's she saying?" Annabeth asked him. "Please, you have to tell us."

Bruce looked back at them, over his shoulder, and Annabeth was momentarily shocked to see that his blandly handsome, cheerful face had been replaced with a visage as hard as stone. "She says that he hurts her, every night…" he swallowed. "That he makes her bleed. And that he hits her when he's done with her. Sometimes he hits her before, too."

Marjane yanked her good hand out of Bruce's, and covered her face with it. Her sobbing began again in earnest as she cradled her injured arm, and she choked out her next words. Bruce resumed translating directly.

"This morning I found out I was pregnant. I told my husband and this is what he did to me. He was angry with me, and told me that it was my responsibility to make sure this didn't happen. But how could I know? No one ever told me. And now I am sharing my shame with strange men and women, because I have no where else to go."

She continued sobbing, rocking back and forth, as the three adults stared at each other. Maya and Annabeth looked resigned; Bruce was aghast. Even though he knew this happened all the time, this was the first time he had ever been exposed to it. He was shocked not only at what he had learned, but also, that it had cut at him so deeply.

* * *

In his early twenties, after he left Gotham but before he had begun spelunking the depths of his own darkness, Bruce had done a fair amount of fairly innocent globe-trotting. He wandered alone, disdaining the company of his equally privileged peers who were more intent on broadening their sexual experience and closet contents than they were on their minds and horizons. In those years before he became one with the criminals, he was fairly unhappy, but also fairly naïve. He was on a quest, a quiet, unobtrusive quest, searching for something—he knew not what—and wouldn't stop until he found it.

One of the places he came to roost at for a few months was a curious little settlement in a remote region of India. Men and women lived there, communally, secularly, yet mainly devoting their efforts to maintaining a Spartan existence of meditating and little else. Bruce stayed with them for a few months, seldom speaking, often listening, sometimes participating. He grew close to a wizened and wise old woman, a widow who had long ago decided to tend to these strange, remote people. Day in and day out, he watched her go through her chores, of which there were many, and he would help her with the manual tasks which were slowly becoming to be too much for her.

Right before Bruce left, the monsoon season began. One day, as the storms were sweeping through the region, he had suddenly begun to talk. He told her about himself—his past, his parents, his anger, his grief. She had never interrupted him, only listened as he talked. Finally he fell silent, the effort of revealing his pain having exhausted him. He looked over at the old woman, who continued on with her methodical basket-weaving, occasionally glancing up and looking out at the torrential rains that beat down beyond their flimsy hut. When she finally spoke, she uttered words that stayed with Bruce long after: "Fortune presents gifts not according to the book."

As soon as the monsoons cleared away, Bruce had left. But the old woman's words lodged themselves into his head, and arose at odd—yet somehow telling—moments in his life. And as Bruce looked across at Annabeth, and then at Marjane, he realized that fortune did indeed present gifts not according to the book. He didn't deserve all he had been born with, and yet here it all was in his possession, a charmed life by any outsider's standards. He had approached Safe Haven as a way to investigate Annabeth, and while he would still do that, he had also become committed to helping Safe Haven, regardless of what Annabeth was involved in. Fortune was indeed odd, but he would not question how he came to this point.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Two hours had passed since Bruce had spoken with Marjane. Shortly after she had told her story, a doctor arrived—a large, bustling woman who knew exactly what to expect the moment Maya had called her. Dr. Galop was a discreet and big-hearted woman, and she loved to help the Safe Haven women. She had shooed Bruce out, and Annabeth followed soon after. "She's got it covered—she's given Marjane a sedative, and she's setting the bone now," Annabeth had told him. "Look, it's late, and I'm sure you have questions. Donna wanted me to take you out for a meal, I suppose to impress you or something, so let's go grab a bite. And then you can return to your castle and tell all the lords and ladies how you rubbed shoulders with the peasants."

The words were sharp, even cruel, but she had given him a small, genuine smile. In working together to help Marjane, she had altered her perception of Bruce. He wasn't as dumb as he seemed, nor as indifferent as she had assumed.

They had headed to the café, Annabeth's standard haunt, and sat down at one of the shabby booths. Annabeth watched Bruce closely, but he showed no signs of distaste as Sara passed him a greasy menu and gave him a big wink.

Bruce didn't even open the menu."What's going to happen to her?"

Annabeth didn't need to ask who he was talking about. "I don't know. We can't send her back to Iran, for any number of obvious reasons. And we can't send her back to that husband of hers. And we can't call in Social Services, because they'll just turn her over to Immigration, and since she was smuggled in…" Annabeth shrugged, and then ran her hands through her hair. "It's an awful situation. We'll bring in a translator tomorrow, and when Donna comes back in the morning, we'll go from there." She contemplated the menu for a moment. "I think I'm going to go for the soup and salad. What about you?"

"I don't think I can eat."

Annabeth gave him a long look. Again, the amiable expression that he had presented early in the day had given way to that strange, hardened, flinty look. His jaw was rigid, and his eyes were staring off into the distance, as though he were seeing all of the horrors of Gotham. "Look. Going on hunger strike isn't going to help those women and their kids. It's a war, and any soldier who fights has to keep up their strength."

Sara swung by their table. "What are you going to have?"

"Vegetable soup and a salad for me, Italian dressing on the side." Annabeth glanced over at Bruce, shrugged, and hazarded a guess. "And he's going to have the roast chicken special. Mashed potatoes; broccoli. A side of your wheat rolls. And how about a pot of coffee?"

"Sounds good to me. Big guy like you needs to keep his appetite." Sara gave Bruce a sparkling smile and another wink, and laughed a little as Bruce turned his attention to her and returned the smile.

Annabeth couldn't help but to chuckle a little. "Leopards don't change their spots, do they?"

"And emus don't change their feathers." Bruce leaned forward, his expression now earnest. "Isn't it usually the man's job to order?"

The look Annabeth gave him told him that that was exactly _why _she had ordered for him, and he knew enough to step back from that subject. "So, what are the long term plans for Safe Haven?"

"Plans?" Annabeth repeated, skepticism audible in her voice. Was he actually interested in what happened to his money? "Do you mean, shoot-for-the-stars plans, or just surviving?"

"Annabeth." Bruce said her name firmly, made sure he had her attention. "You're talking to Bruce Wayne. _Surviving _isn't really a word I use that much. Let's focus on the stars."

She thought for a moment. It had been a long time since anyone had asked her what she wanted; never mind the fact that this was a question about a professional issue. It was nice enough to be asked. "I think Donna wants to establish a satellite building, down in the Narrows."

Bruce decided to dumb it up a little. "The Narrows?"

"It's the worst part of the city. It's the birthplace of crime, if there is such a thing. The poverty and crime down there are astounding. And if we can get in there, really get into the community, we might change things."

"How so?" Oh, this was rich, almost entertaining. He could practically see her climbing up onto her soapbox.

"All of the crime in this city, Mr. Wayne. Where does it come from? I don't know, and I know you don't. But I know that it's not enough to fight it by cutting off the branches, taking out the gangs and the mobs, apprehending the criminals. We need to be striking at its roots, destroying the cause."

"What is the cause?" Despite himself, and the Batman within him, Bruce was beginning to find this woman compelling. The way her eyes flashed with passion when she was talking…

"There's no one cause. But the poverty, the crime, the violence that these children are exposed to, usually from birth, is a major contributing factor. And it doesn't let up. The children in the Narrows are reared to expect a hand-to-mouth existence, kill-or-be-killed, and to hell with the politicians and the rich men and the cops. None of those big guys give a damn, at least in the eyes of those children. Someone has to protect them. Someone has to make sure that these kids have a chance. And the women. Someone has to help them claim their dignity, expect more to life than these horrible people that prey upon them." Annabeth paused for a moment, looking at him defiantly. "Are you going to say something about welfare being the plague of the country? That these people choose their own lives, and that this is all their own fault, and they're a drain on the taxpayers' money, and they could rise above it if they tried?"

"No. No, not at all." Bruce smiled self-deprecatingly. "I hear morons like me say that all the time, so I don't need to add to it. I don't know enough about all of this to say that. I have never, and will never experience that kind of existence and misery." Briefly Bruce wandered how many more lies and half-truths he would have to utter this night. Truth was, he usually didn't linger long enough with most people to have the chance to talk this much. He wasn't sure it was a good thing, either way.

Sara swung back by their table, leaving a pot of coffee and two cups. Immediately Bruce reached for the pot and poured a cup, passing it to Annabeth before pouring himself the second cup. Annabeth silently observed this small courtesy, and stowed it away with the other nuggets of knowledge she had gleaned.

The two of them were quiet for a few moments, sipping their coffee and ruminating over the day. When Bruce spoke again, his voice was light, bantering, like it had been that morning. "It's a long war you're fighting. Why don't you try to get the Batman to help? It might be the kind of cause that weirdo would go for."

To his surprise, Annabeth snorted and rolled her eyes. "Right. The Batman. Do you live under a rock? The Batman only cares about taking out the big baddies, the crime lords and the king pins mob bosses and the gang leaders. He's not going to bother with the petty domestic concerns of women and children who are suffering. Girls getting raped, wives being beaten, prostitutes being sold, children being molested? Please. That's beneath his notice. It's _too little _to bother him."

_Ouch. _"Why do you think that?"

Annabeth shrugged; clearly, the subject was of little interest to her. The Batman was some kooky story about some kooky guy, and it had persisted in the papers and the news, but didn't affect her war that much. "Look at what he's done," she pointed out reasonably. "It's all big stuff. That's what he's focused on. And I can't blame him—he's one man, and there's a lot of crime out there. He can't fight everything. But he and I are fighting on two completely different fronts. And I am willing to bet he hasn't got a clue about my front, where it all starts. The home front."

"Well," Bruce chuckled. "It's a pretty moot point. He's a hunted man, anyway. _Persona non grata,_as it were. After all that went down with that DA, Harvey Dent, no one's looking to a big bat to save the city anymore."

"Hmmph." Shaking her head, Annabeth didn't look impressed with this argument. "Dent was no friend of ours. He was in tight with a few judges that were _really _lenient with some of our clients' husbands and fathers. They didn't care if the wife-beaters walked. Didn't have a moment to spare for us. Anyway…I don't know what to think about all that mess that went down. Something's not right, there. We're not getting the whole story."

"What do you mean? You don't think the media tells it how it is?"

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne. Welcome to Earth; what planet are you from?" _Christ, he really is a tool sometimes. _"I just think that how we were told it went down was _not _how it happened. I'm no Batman fangirl, I think that much is obvious. But I sure as hell don't think he went around killing people, either. He's a misguided man, not a killer. Besides…there's rumors going around. Before he died, Dent made some appearances around town; the people that were still alive afterward were pretty clear: after that girlfriend of his was killed, Dent lost his marbles."

For a moment, Bruce waged an internal struggle to keep his face smooth and pleasant. Mastering the urge to howl his grief to all who could listen, he gave a lopsided grin. "You know, Dent's girlfriend used to be a really good friend of mine. Dent was over the moon about her."

She looked at him sharply, and was about to say something, when she noticed Madison Rose ambling up to them. Bruce turned and noticed her at the same time. Quietly, he took in her bedraggled appearance; the gift bows stuck on her shoes; the multiple layers of clothing.

"Hi, Rose!" Annabeth wasn't fazed in the slightest. "This is Madison Rose, Bruce. She's a regular here."

"Hi, Rose. Do you want some coffee?" Bruce slid his cup towards her, and scooted over so that she would have a place to sit, but his expression turned to surprise as the woman began to swat at the empty air over his head.

"Batsbatsbats…" she muttered. "You got bats everywhere. Get rid of them bats. Dirty bastards, bats. Time to put the eels in my hovercraft."

And then she ambled off. With an inscrutable look on his face, Bruce turned back to Annabeth, who couldn't help having a small laugh at his expense. "Welcome to Gotham City, Bruce. How's it look from down here?"

Sara approached then, her arms laden with their dishes, and so Bruce was saved from the effort of responding. For several minutes, they concentrated on their food; Annabeth noted with amusement that Bruce's appetite had quickly returned. He ate quickly, as though he derived no pleasure in his food, and Annabeth was not even halfway through her salad when he put down his fork and started speaking again.

"How long has Safe Haven been around?"

"Eight years," Annabeth told him. " Donna established it eight years ago."

"Where'd she get the money?"

Annabeth smiled as she remembered her boss's exact words. "She says that she married well, and divorced better. Her husband was an absolute monster, but she divorced him, and the prenup held, and so she started Safe Haven. Of course, money's been tight ever since."

Bruce nodded. "Understandably. And she said something about Safe Haven losing a grant?"

"Yes, it just happened today. We've been too busy to sit down and strategize, but it could be a real problem."

"I wouldn't worry too much about that," Bruce assured her. "I think two million should be a good starting point."

She had been about to take another bite of her salad, but she froze, her hand suspended in midair. A cherry tomato fell off her fork and rolled across the table. "Excuse me?"

Almost absently, Bruce flicked the tomato across the room, and grinned as it landed close to Sara. "Two million…it would purchase and renovate a suitable building in the Narrows. And I think an endowment, some sort of trust fund, of ten million, to sustain overhead costs, salaries, benefits...but then, there's still the flagship location to consider."

Sara sidled over to them. "Need anything else?"

"How about your number?" Bruce winked at her.

Annabeth suddenly felt dizzy. "Ten million?"

"You don't think that will be enough?" Bruce frowned, considering. "No. I suppose with inflation being what it is…I'll talk it over with the accountants, see what they think. She really is a cute girl…how old is she?"

"She's legal, if that's what you're worried about. Twenty-three, I think." Annabeth shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time taking all of this in."

"Why not? I'm only thirty-two, it's not that much of an age difference. I'd be interested in serving on your board of directors, though. Do they have any pie here?" Bruce sat up a little, craning his neck and searching for a dessert case. "I'd _really _love a slice of key lime pie."

"Board of directors?" At this point, Annabeth could only parrot him. "We don't really have one…just Donna, a psychology professor from Gotham U, and another major donor."

Bruce was busy scribbling something down on a napkin. His number, no doubt. He glanced up at Annabeth. "No board of directors? I'll talk about it with Donna." He flagged Sara back over to them. "Here's my number, beautiful. I'm free any night this week."

Sara smiled at him and accepted the napkin, but as she departed, she threw Annabeth a look and rolled her eyes. _At least not everyone is suffering from oxygen deprivation, _Annabeth thought, _He's such an airhead, he takes up all the oxygen in the room. _She pulled herself back together. Ten million dollars! _Ten million dollars._

"Annabeth?" Bruce was looking at her questioningly.

"Mr. Wayne-"

"_Bruce."_

"Very well, Bruce. I cannot tell you how much this means to us—we were hoping for generosity. But this—this will make an incredible difference. This is the difference between surviving and thriving. I cannot even begin to think of how we can thank you for this." For once, Annabeth didn't have to make the effort to lavish effusive praise. Every word she spoke was true.

"I can think of one way you can thank me."

"What's that?" Annabeth asked, and wanted to punch herself as soon as she said it.

"You free this Saturday?"

* * *

"Let me get this straight. He asked you out on a date?"

"No, Janey. _Hell, no." _Annabeth shook her head at the absurdity of this notion. "He's invited me to some damned party of his. Apparently they've finished rebuilding that house he burnt down, and Wayne's holding some big gala to celebrate it. He invited me."

Disbelief oozed from every word that Janey spoke. "And you said _yes?"_

Annabeth sighed and shook her head. She had finally returned home, at almost eleven at night, and immediately called Donna, and then Janey, to relay the day's events. An eternity had lapsed since this morning, or so it seemed, and she had yet to process all that had transpired. "Janey, of course I said yes. The man just gave us millions of dollars. Plus, he said that he wanted me to meet a lot of people at the party—some real movers and shakers. Corporate types, politicians, journalists." Even now, she could recall the wheedling tone in Bruce Wayne's voice as he convinced her to join the party. He knew how to persuade, she'd give him that.

"My goodness. You're quite the heartbreaker." Janey was clearly delighted to have such opportunities for mockery present themselves to her, with such little effort. "Maybe if you're nice to him, he'll show you his emus. The dream of any Gotham woman."

"Shut _up." _But Annabeth was smiling; the whole thing was really kind of absurd. "You know I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb. I'll look like the poor relation."

"Annabeth, you _are _the poor relation. Don't bother pretending to be anything else but." There was a pause as Janey spoke to someone on her end of the phone, presumably her live-in boyfriend. "Hey, Annabeth? Jason wants to know if you'll scrounge him up a sugar-mama while you're there."

"Sure, I'm right on that. I'll find him a sugar-mama right after I'm done seducing Bruce Wayne. Easy as…well, wait. That _should _be pretty easy. That fool flirts with anything that has two legs and breathes."

"Well," Janey said reasonably, "that could explain the emus."

Annabeth groaned. "I'm hanging up now."

And hang up she did, and finally, _finally _she was alone. She sat quietly on the half of the couch that had not yet broken, and gazed around at her small little condo. It was just big enough for her and her pets—the cocker spaniel Jed who now sat at her feet, happily drooling now that his mistress was home, and the mangy cat who now perched atop the bookcase, glaring balefully down at them. Oh, it was wonderful to be home, to be encased in silence and solitude. After the day she had had, she could happily go to sleep for a week.

After a few moments of blissful stillness, in which she simply sat, doing nothing, Annabeth sighed and reached for her laptop bag. Sleep was hours away, so she may as well get some work done.

* * *

"Let me get this straight, Master Wayne. You asked her out on a _date?"_

The Batman glanced over at Alfred, clearly unamused. _"No. _How many times do I have to make this clear? It's not a date. She's coming here in a professional capacity, to try to make some contacts."

"And presumably, so you can watch her, see what else you can find out about her."

"Actually, no. So _you _can watch her, Alfred, and see what else _you_ can find out about her. She's coming to meet some of our more distinguished guests, or so she thinks."

Alfred cocked an eyebrow. "Might I say, sir, that my job description has changed dramatically in the past two years."

"And your salary has, too. Just make sure she meets the right people, and try to get a read on her."

They were in the Batcave again. As soon as Bruce had arrived home from a very long day in the city, the two of them had headed downstairs. Immediately, Alfred had noticed a change in Bruce—his persona was neither that of the vapid and foolish playboy, nor that of the relentless and fearsome dark knight. While Bruce was doing his best to hide it, he was nonetheless behaving…almost genuinely. Something had disturbed him today, something had managed to affect him to the point where he was not putting up any sort of front.

They sat at their work areas now, facing the enormous LCD monitor that now displayed the information that Alfred had unearthed on Annabeth de Burgh: A photograph of her, taken a couple of years back, was the current information on display. In the picture, she was smiling the same guarded smile that Bruce had seen earlier that day.

"Annabeth de Burgh," Alfred told him. "No middle name. She's thirty-one years old. A Gotham native. de Burgh is not her birth name; she changed it from her father's name when when she turned twenty-one. She's lived here her entire life. Graduated Gotham Heights College with a BS in Applied Psychology; an MA in Clinical Psychology, and a PhD in Counseling Psychology, with a focus in Psychology and Social Intervention. She's worked at that Safe Haven place for three years, ever since she graduated. She completed an eighteen month internship at Arkahm Asylum whilst completing her PhD."

"What about family?"

"She hasn't got any."

Batman looked over at Alfred, surprised. "I find that hard to believe."

Alfred shook his head. "Doesn't matter if you don't believe it. It's the truth. No siblings. Her mother left when Miss de Burgh was very young. Miss de Burgh's father reared her, in a manner of speaking, until she was six years old, at which time he was arrested in a drug raid. Miss de Burgh was sent to Social Services, and her father was sent to prison. He died there, about three years later. Miss de Burgh was sent to various foster homes until she turned seventeen."

"Nice work." The Batman stared harder at the photo of Annabeth. "What else?"

"There isn't much else to tell. According to what I discovered, Miss de Burgh moonlights as a trauma counselor at Gotham General two nights a week. She volunteers at the YWCA down in the Narrows one night a week, and is a Big Sister for various troubled youth. As you requested, I obtained income information, and analyzed her tax returns and her bank accounts. No unusual activities, and all of the information balances out. Her Social Services files are sealed, as are her medical records. Would you like me to hack into the hospital and county databases and access them?"

"No. That's not necessary. And it's not particularly ethical."

"Of course, Master Wayne. Because obtaining her financial information and stealing her address book are _entirely _above board."

That reminded the Batman. "The address book! What was in it?"

"I've made photocopies of it so we might cross-reference everything at a later date. But it appears that there is little personal information in that, either—mainly professional contacts."

The Batman frowned. "Who are you?" he asked the unresponsive picture of Annabeth. Other questions, left unasked, were jumbled in his head. _Are you innocent in all of this? Are you responsible for these women's deaths?_ He turned back to Albert. "What do you think?"

"Having never met the lady, Master Wayne, I cannot venture to say with any certainty. But judging by this information—social worker, trauma counselor, all-around do-gooder, I would say you and she are two peas in a pod. Only she's a crusader without a cape."

"I wouldn't go that far…not yet. But Alfred…" the Batman turned to the older man, and the face that he showed was not that of the feared vigilante, or even that of Bruce the brainless billionaire; it was simply the Bruce that Alfred had always known, and was always relieved to see. Nothing, not pretty women, or fast cars, or the thrill of justice and the violence that Bruce was beginning to embrace, could hide the anguish now distorting his face, or the pain in his eyes. "Alfred, I saw _horrible _things today. I can't understand why people do the things they do to each other. And it's almost like these people that I met ever had a chance—they were born into these awful lives. How can anyone treat women and children like that? I'm not a husband or a father, and I probably never will be." Even as he said it, Bruce realized the truth in those words, and the knowledge left an awful, gaping loneliness inside him. "But I can't imagine doing the things that they told me about. Terrorizing children, brutalizing women, destroying their self-esteem, setting up these kids for a life of repeating the cycle. It has to be awful, to get to the point where you're willing to rely on the kindness of strangers and leave all you've ever known."

"Yes," Alfred said, and there was enormous pity in his eyes, both for the young man before him, and the people Bruce had described. "Women must be incredibly brave and strong to survive in this society, but these women that you speak of, they must have even more courage."

"And the children. Having to see all that awful cruelty." Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, pulling up distant memories of his mother and father, loving parents who doted on him and each other. Would it have been different if they were living in the Narrows, trying to make ends meet, trying to avoid the dangers that plagued those who lived in those slums? Would they have treated each other differently; would Bruce have turned out differently? Was he only a product of the wealth into which he was born? Those children…he thought of Caitlin, sweet and silent and afraid, but holding out her hands for Bruce to see. The blisters; the horrific, angry burns._"Dammit, _Alfred. Those people at Safe Haven, they're the lucky ones. They're the ones that managed to escape. But there's so many more…"

"Master Wayne?"

Annabeth's words were ringing through Bruce's head. _"The Batman only cares about taking out the big baddies…he's not going to bother with the petty domestic concerns of women and children who are suffering." _She was right, he realized. God almighty, she was right. "It was something Annabeth said…" he told Albert. "Something about the Batman-"

"You told her about Batman?"

"_No, _of course not. It just came up in passing. She said something about the Batman being too important to bother with the little people, only caring about the big crimes. I think she was trying to say that Batman only did the stuff that would make a big impression, and wouldn't care about the little people." A burning sensation, a hot pain, began to grow in his chest. Shame. It was shame that he was feeling. "I think she was right."

Alfred studied him for a long moment. "Maybe, Master Bruce. But you're only one man."

"I need to do more than just one man." Bruce's expression began to change, and before Alfred's eyes, he saw the Batman, the feral hunter, return. "I think she was right, Alfred. I think she was onto something." He paused. "But that all changes, tonight."

* * *

2 AM rolled around, and Annabeth was finally tired enough to turn in for a few hours of sleep. She had spent a good amount of time tapping away at her laptop, writing an editorial and also working on some research she had been conducting. It was the most relaxed she had been all day—once she was in her home, her own little safe haven, life became significantly less overwhelming. Beside her on the couch, her animals were curled up, sleeping; outside, a gentle rain was falling; all around her, there was peace and quiet. She had changed into her shabbiest pair of yoga pants and a tank top; she had skinned her long hair back into a messy ponytail. She was as far removed from her daytime professional appearance as possible, and it was blissful.

But now, time for sleep, even if it was in the world's most godawfully ancient, hard bed—on a social worker's salary, she couldn't exactly afford a pillowtop mattress. And come to think of it, she was willing to bet a posh mattress like that wouldn't fit in her bedroom anyway. Wearily, she rose from the couch and began to brew a pot of chamomile tea, and debated whether or not she wanted to take a sleeping aid. She got so little sleep as it was; even on the nights when she turned in early, she tossed and turned with the torments of her nightmares. This time, she opted to go the natural route.

Ten minutes later, she was carrying a steaming mug and meandering into her bedroom. She flicked on the lights, and –

The cup of tea fell from her nerveless hands and shattered on the floor as she took in the hulking black figure who seemed to fill half the room. "What the hell?" she barked. "Christ's balls, who the hell are you?"

"You know who I am."

As soon as the man in black began to talk, his voice painfully rasping, Annabeth knew who she was dealing with. The Batman. _Really? He actually existed? _Her heart racing, she began to silently assess her room—what could serve as a weapon? Her baseball bat, a lightweight metal affair, would do the trick; she used to have a wooden one, delightfully heavy, but those would splinter and crack if you hit hard enough. And god knew, she hit hard.

The baseball bat, however, was across the room—right by where the Batman was standing, near her window. He saw her eyes darting around the room, and correctly anticipated her plans. "Don't move. Don't scream. I'm not here to hurt you. But I want some answers."

She crossed her arms and glared. "Get in line."

"You worked with Carrolly Cooper, Lizzie Salvadore, and Jeana Wilson, didn't you?"

"Oh god. This is Groundhog's Day, isn't it?" All of a sudden, Annabeth's exhaustion caught up with her. "Yes, yes, _yes, _I worked with all three of them. How many more times am I going to have to say this? Would you prefer me to give you this in iambic pentameter? A haiku?"

"Who did you tell about them?"

"Commissioner Gordon. For the big stuff like this—that is, the people who rat on the mob—he likes to be involved. He's our go-to guy."

"Anyone else?"

"No. But in the case of Jeana and Lizzie, several people potentially knew about them, because they came to Safe Haven first." A volcano of anger began to build in Annabeth. "And I wish to hell we hadn't sent them on. You guys screwed the pooch on that one, you know? You didn't give a _damn _for those women. You wouldn't have known they existed if they weren't willing to give evidence, and I bet you wouldn't care what happened to them afterwards."

Although it was hard to tell with that weird mask and cowl he wore, Annabeth was pretty sure his face remained impassive. He ignored her commentary, and pressed on. "So you're saying that others could have known about them going to the police?"

"Yes. And let's not forget, the police may have been the ones to sell them out. This is getting really old. These are the same questions Gordon asked me earlier."

"I'll ask one question that I am pretty sure Gordon was too nice to say. Did you reveal those women's hiding places?"

"You dolt, I didn't even _know _where their hideouts were! After I referred them to Gordon, I wasn't a player any more. They went into hiding, and I never heard anything else from or about them."

The Batman frowned; something had occurred to him. "What happens when they go into hiding?"

Annabeth was beginning to realize that this could go on for a while. "I don't know many of the details. They get a new identity—new names, social security number, credit ratings. They eventually give testimony, and then they disappear into a new city. And they have to cut off all ties with their old life. It's actually really hard to do that."

"Too hard?"

"You think that they contacted people connected with the Arrows, after they went into hiding? Some of their friends?" Annabeth, surprisingly, did not get offended at this prospect. "It's possible—quite possible. Like I said, it's hard to leave everything behind, even if it's awful."

"Why wouldn't they want to leave it behind?"

"You don't get it, do you? None of you do." Annabeth rubbed her eyes, stifled a yawn; her anger and fear were starting to subside. "It's hard to leave anything behind when it's all you've ever known. When you mistreat an animal from the beginning, how will it know that there's anything else out there? Carrolly and the others may have had awful, painful, frightening lives, but at least they knew what their lives were about. At least they had that identity. Yes, I think it's entirely possible that they could have blown their cover."

The Batman wasn't convinced. "Or maybe you want to shift the blame."

Annabeth had had enough. "Piss off. What the hell do you know? I'm helping these women, which is a hell of a lot more than you can say. Go, chase a bad guy. Blow up City Hall, save a puppy. Whatever. Just get out of my hair and leave me the hell alone so I can get some sleep."

"I'm going to be watching you," the Batman told her. The obvious threat in his voice didn't deter Annabeth in the slightest, only annoyed her.

"Oh, lucky me. My very own stalker. I think you'll need to try a little harder to scare me." She glanced at her watch. "Look, this has been lovely. A real healing session. I'm leaving this room for ninety seconds, and when I come back, you need to be gone." She bent over, and began to pick up the shards of her tea mug. "And don't ever come into my home again."

When she straightened up, the room was empty, and the Batman gone. Her window was open, and the only sound that could be heard was the pitter-pat of the rain.

Annabeth dashed to the window and leaned outside. "And use a damned throat lozenge!" she bellowed into the night before slamming the window shut. As she turned back and gazed around her room, once a cozy place, but now vulnerable and violated, she shuddered, and wondered if she would ever again feel safe in her home.


	6. Chapter 6

Perhaps such a flurry of dramatic events occurring so early in the week had provided Annabeth and Safe Haven with enough excitement, for the rest of the week flowed past, remarkably without incident. The only issue of note occurred on Thursday, when an engraved invitation, embossed on luxuriously heavy stationary, thumped its way on to Annabeth's desk. She found herself surprised that Bruce Wayne had remembered his casually-issued invitation, and when she mentioned it to Donna, it quickly became clear that short of being struck down by bubonic plague or a 7.6 earthquake, she would have to attend.

"And even if it is the plague, you're still to go unless you've got those funny black spots. As for the earthquake…well, then we could negotiate." Donna was unimpressed with Annabeth's studied disinterest in their newest benefactor. "Somehow, that abrasive personality of yours that you parade around like a gothic girl scout medal endeared you to Wayne; he told me as much himself. I had a feeling it would. I never realized what a proper little shrew I'd hired." Annabeth's boss allowed herself a satisfied smirk. "So I don't want to hear any excuses or complaints. You're going. Just…try to be nice. We want _more _donors, _more _clout. Not a reputation for churning out uppity women who don't know their place."

"But Donna, that's _exactly _what we're doing," Annabeth pointed out, with no small amount of amusement. Some times—and just now was one of those times—she suspected that Donna was in training to be a ruthless Fortune 500 CEO in her next life.

"That's beside the point, Annabeth. No buts—you're going. Do it for the women. Lie back and think of Gotham."

Which was how Annabeth found herself at Janey's apartment that Saturday afternoon, being trussed up into a black evening gown and being plucked, shaved, brushed, painted, perfumed, and generally transformed into a strange, twilight-zone version of herself.

"Well," Janey sighed reluctantly, "It'll have to do."

Annabeth stood in front of Janey's full-length mirror, and together they regarded her reflection. Janey, in particular, didn't seem too happy.

"What? _What?" _Annabeth allowed heself to feel just a wee bit offended. "I can't go waltzing around in some Dior get-up that's overpriced and hideous. I can't pretend to be some socialite. I couldn't afford it, even if I did want to playact at being rich. I'd rip the gown, trip in the heels, and quite possibly blind myself with a mascara wand." She gazed in the mirror again, and smiled. "I look fine. I look _good, _even."

"You do. You certainly do," Janey rushed to reassure her. She cast an appreciative look at Annabeth's simple black evening dress. It may have been a polyester-blend gown, pulled from the clearance rack at Macy's, but it still had a beautiful cut. "It would just be nice if you could go there without _announcing _to everyone that you haven't spent thousands of your outfit. You don't need to help them notice, they can probably tell on their own. Come to think of it…how _can _they tell? Is it some gene that they have? An extra chromosome? Maybe it's a certain position they breed in that passes it along."

Annabeth winced. "I can't believe I even spent this much on it. Seventy dollars! And it doesn't even cover everything!" It didn't, that much was true. The dress was, in theory, very conservative—it swished its way to the floor, and it had long sleeves...but the neckline plunged dramatically. Annabeth hadn't revealed this much skin since she came out of the womb, of that she was fairly certain.

Jason, Janey's long-term boyfriend, passed by the bedroom and poked his head in to see the transformation taking place. He gave a low whistle. "Those rich folks need to watch out! You should bring a pickpocket with you—you distract everyone while someone else robs 'em blind."

"I'll take that under advisement," Annabeth sighed, "if they don't willingly open up their wallets. God knows my typical charms won't work on them. I think Wayne must be some sort of emotional masochist. I think he likes to be verbally shat upon."

She watched as Janey hauled out her massive cosmetics case, and began fussing with various tools, jars, and tubes. She had been a beautician when she was putting herself through nursing school, and she still loved to beautify people. And god knew, Annabeth was a huge project, a potential masterpiece. She set about styling Annabeth's hair, brushing it vigorously with some special cream until her chestnut locks shone; then began concentrating on putting it into a up-swept hairstyle. As Janey worked, intent on her art, Annabeth silently regarded her in the mirror. Janey's was an uncomplicated life, filled with work and love and simplicity. It felt wrong, even tainting her home with this, but Janey _was _her best friend…

"Janey?"

"Hmmm?"

"Something…something else happened this week. Something I didn't tell you about."

Janey paused and peered over at her. "Something else? You certainly have been busy."

"I'm serious." The sharp tone in Annabeth's voice drew all the humor out of the conversation. "Someone broke into my home during the week."

"What? Who? What happened? Are you okay?" All attention had been directed away from the state of Annabeth's hair.

"I'm fine, I'm fine…I wasn't hurt, nothing was stolen, it wasn't that kind of intruder. Janey, I don't think you'll believe me…it was the Batman."

Instead of scoffing, or bursting into laughter, Janet retained her serious expression and became thoughtful. "Really? I can't say that I'm surprised. Better him than someone else…I think he's the safest intruder there is."

"That's a surprising point of view," Annabeth said as Janey resumed her ministrations. "I didn't know you were such a fan."

"Not a fan, as such…but I appreciate what he's trying to do. Hell, it's not 'trying'…he _is _making a difference."

Annabeth was intrgued. "How can you tell?"

Janey stuck a few bobby pins in her hair, at seemingly random and irrelevant angles. "Just the things I hear during my shift. A lot of the patients that come in have relatively minor injuries, that could have been a lot worse if the bat guy hadn't intervened. That's what he's been doing since that whole Joker fiasco. Keeping a low profile, mainly, but he's helping folks out. Just the other day, he stopped a group of thugs from lynching an Afghani man. Those guys ended up with _way _more injuries than that poor man. Anyway, my point is, the patients talk. And even if they haven't experienced him, they know someone who has. It's a very interesting urban phenomenon, when you consider it. Kind of like the dumb teenage mom who named her kid Placenta, only this dude is a hell of a lot more real than that crazy story."

"You think he's a good guy, huh?"

"Well…look at you. You came out of the encounter alright, and let's face it, sweets. You have some really rotten luck when it comes to that kind of stuff."

Their eyes met in the mirror, and an eternity's worth of secrets and knowledge flowed between them. Then Annabeth resumed talking. "He was there wanting to know about the Arrows women."

"Him too?" Janey snorted. "Jesus, those investigators are like bloodhounds with a bad sense of smell. Did you pack him off with a flea in his ear?"

Annabeth grinned. "I did, actually, I was really quite an asshole. I went at him like the village scold." She began to rub her eyes, to dispel the tiredness that always seemed to trouble her now, but Janey swatted her hands away. "Don't ruin the mascara," she scolded.

"Everything has been so crazy, awful this week. I can't seem to get anything together. My address book went missing earlier in the week. It had _all _of my professional contacts in it. And someone _invaded _my house. I don't care if it's a caped cleric, bent on llama's rights, the fact is that my home has been _violated. _I haven't felt safe there since."

"You can stay here if you want," Janey offered. "God knows you need someone to look after you." She began rubbing lotion into Annabeth's skin, her hands gentle and caressing. "You work yourself to death, you know."

"I know." And Janey didn't know the half of what Annabeth got up to in her off hours. "But I need my own space, and you guys are pretty far removed from the city."

"That's entirely my point. Maybe it's about time you move a little farther afield." Janey had begun to carefully apply concealer under Annabeth's shadowed eyes. "But you're a stubborn ass, and you won't go anywhere."

Annabeth gave her oldest friend a grin. "At least I'm predictable."

* * *

In her entire life, Annabeth had been to the Palisades only once before, as part of a school field trip to some historic house that had been converted to a museum. She had been eight at the time, and in the third grade. That was not a particularly stable point in her life, and the only thing Annabeth recalled about the field trip was attempting to hide in one of the bedrooms. When they eventually found her, all she could say to explain herself was "Is there a family here I can live with?"

No, the memory was neither beloved nor even particularly clear, and so Annabeth could not rely on that to guide her to and through this upscale area of Gotham. As she navigated Janey's 1999 Civic—borrowed for the occasion, since Annabeth couldn't afford the cab fare for a journey this far outside of the city—down the tree-lined, rural roads, in search of Wayne Manor, Annabeth couldn't help but to wonder _why _the Palisades was part of Gotham City, anyway. The two had nothing to do with each other, were two entirely different worlds. Gotham was a bustling, filthy metropolis, filled with crime and criminals and everyday citizens and working people—the only commonality there being that they were all, in their own way, trying to keep body and soul together. Whereas the Palisades was a remote, rural, well-maintained bastion of the trust fund babies who didn't have to bother with such petty concerns as earning a living. So, why_was _the Palisades part of Gotham? _Probably for the tax revenue, _Annabeth realized as she drove past a stately Tudor house.

She had been driving down this rural lane for twenty minutes, and she had already learned an interesting fact about rich folks and their territory: their homes may be national landmarks, but they certainly didn't feel the need to provide signs to point the way to them. Presumably the only people who would be allowed to visit already instinctively _knew _where their neighbors were. So far, she had passed six enormous, sprawling estates, each of which could have conceivably been Wayne Manor, for all the grandeur and lack of public information declaring their tenancies. Fortunately for Annabeth, Wayne—or more likely, some other kind soul with more presence of mind—had included directions in the invitation, so she had not yet made a wrong turn. If it hadn't been for the directions, she would have spent an eternity wandering about in this Candyland of misbegotten wealth, and so for the final part of the drive, Annabeth entertained herself by cursing Wayne and all his ilk.

Finally, she arrived—in the darkness, Wayne Manor loomed ahead, every window blazing with golden, welcoming light, looking all of two hundred years old, even though it had been standing for less than two months. To achieve that sort of appearance, deliberately, now _that _took a prize combination of taste, money, and class. Bruce Wayne rose a miniscule point in her estimation. Any fool could have rebuilt the family estates according to more modern—and hideous—sensibilities, but not this rich kid. He went for the tried and true method of what had gone before, and honored his family's history. Curious, indeed—but not her concern. She turned into a graveled drive, lined with juniper bushes trimmed to a ridiculous degree of anal retentiveness, and inched her way up the incline. Here was a home designed to impress.

And remarkably, perhaps for the first time in its noble two-hundred-year, or depending on who one asked, two-month history, it failed. Annabeth quite simply didn't give a damn.

As she approached the house, Annabeth squinted at the group of impeccably dressed young men standing at attention at the front steps—and groaned. Valet parking. Dear christ, this night was going to be an obstacle course, an orgy of conspicuous consumption, a grueling gauntlet of gormandy and greed. Gritting her teeth, gathering her dignity, she parked the car behind a Bentley and emerged, her head held high.

Surprisingly, the valet took her keys with merely a grave node and a generic urging to enjoy the party. Apparently even the hired help was of the best quality, and had the good sense not to look down their nose at the guest. _Or maybe they drove Civics to work here, too_, Annabeth mused as she watched the valet navigate the borrowed car away from the house, presumably to house it with its more distinguished cousins in a parking garage.

She sighed and turned towards the house. Up close, it looked even bigger, and along with the golden light spilling out, so too were sounds of laughter, chatter, music. Gamely she lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and thought briefly of the women back in Gotham: the women and girls nestled safely within Safe Haven, and the women who had no safe haven at all. There were so many—at all levels of society, women being abused, bullied, neglected, raped, bought, sold, objectified, denigrated, humiliated, marginalized, stigmatized—being a woman was a shit job, no two ways about it. And she needed to find people who would listen, would help, would join their voices to hers, and Donna's, and Maya's, and yes, even Bruce Wayne's.

_Damn him. Damn him to hell._

She reached the front entrance—a set of ornately-carved double doors, now thrown open to welcome the guests. Annabeth saw two very beefy men checking the invitations, and just beyond them—the man of the hour himself. The man who had, with little time and even less effort, provoked within Annabeth a problematic combination of high blood pressure, bewilderment, resentment, and gratitude.

_Smile, dammit._

"Annabeth!" Bruce Wayne stepped forward, not even bothering to let Mr. Beef check her invitation. Dressed in an immaculately pressed tuxedo, he looked as blandly handsome as ever, but also, genuinely pleased to see her. He leaned into her, and only Annabeth's tiny right hand, quickly thrust out and offering a handshake, prevented him from bringing her into an embrace. Clearly, Wayne had already been tippling for hours, if he was so eager to hug the hostile woman who persisted in finding his presence underwhelming. "I'm glad you could make it. Thank you for coming." Ignoring her body language, he placed a hand on her arm, gave a gentle squeeze, and whispered conspiratorially, "There's quite a few folks I invited specifically for you to meet tonight. Stick close to my butler Alfred, and he'll make sure you're taken care of." And, just like that, he moved off, greeting other people, passing glasses of champagne, giving hearty handshakes, kissing the ladies.

As Bruce wandered off, the promised Alfred materialized as if from nowhere, a tall, stately man of a certain age, with kindly eyes and a kindlier smile. Right away Annabeth correctly deduced that he had long ago honed the ability to be invisible except when needed, at which point he was everywhere at once, the soul of efficiency and courtly courtesy. Like Bruce Wayne, he was dressed in a tuxedo; unlike Bruce Wayne, he was clearly present in the duty of serving, rather than hosting. "Good evening, Miss de Burgh. Master Wayne has told me much about you."

In fact, Bruce Wayne's description had been unflattering in the extreme, yet grudgingly admiring. That morning, when Alfred had pressed him for a description of Annabeth's personality, Bruce had pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then answered, "She's a very short, very shrill Amazon of a woman. Or maybe just a shrew. Perhaps a harpy." Yet, there had been admiration in his voice; usually people succumbed to one or the other of his personalities. Annabeth was an interesting quirk of nature, it would seem.

Now the harpy stood before Alfred, looking him straight in the eye and shaking his hand firmly, giving him a surprisingly warm smile. "Good evening. How are you doing?"

_Harpy, indeed. Perhaps more like a siren. _Master Wayne needed his head checked. "I'm to accompany you this evening, my dear," Alfred told her. "And I must say, it's a delightful change from passing around the champagne."

"You're the family butler?" Annabeth grinned. "For how long?"

"Decades," was the prompt and proud reply. "And after Master Wayne's parents passed, I stood as guardian for him." Alfred's eyes followed Bruce as he moved throughout the entrance hall, ushering other guests into the grand salon. "I watched him grow up."

"Indeed." Annabeth struggled for a moment to curb her instinct to produce a caustic reply, and settled for, "That must have been an interesting experience."

"If by 'interesting' you mean a nerve-wracking and harrowing experience sent by Beelzebub and the bowels of Hell to torment me in my old age, well, yes, I suppose you would be correct." Alfred gave her a friendly wink. "Master Bruce has always had a flair for creative trouble-making."

Annabeth laughed. "'Creative troublemaking'. I'll have to remember that one…so diplomatic, yet so true."

"A troublemaker he may be, my dear, but he knows how to take care of his guests. I am to be your friend and ally for the evening. Will you permit me to escort you to the grand salon?" Alfred held out his arm to Annabeth. She hesitated for a moment, but some long-dormant sense of manners awakened long enough to override her usual standoffish tendencies. She took Alfred's arm with a gracious and grateful smile, and together they made their way into the grand salon, where the privileged elite of Gotham's society mingled, blissfully unaware that a force of nature had just blown into their ranks, and her name was Hurricane Annabeth.

* * *

Throngs of glittering, gleaming, flashing, attractive people. Equally attractive waiters and waitresses, weaving in and out of the crowds, bearing trays of champagne and canapés. The scent of fresh-cut flowers, gamely battling but ultimately losing out to the stronger perfumes and colognes of the guests. Violin and piano music, unobtrusive yet nevertheless adding to the atmosphere of gaiety. A Gotham society soirée simply wasn't done right unless it launched a constant assault against all of the five senses, from beginning to end.

Alfred had seen it a hundred times before: a novice to the society scene, already nervous, not knowing what to expect, would simply become overwhelmed, mute, shy, sometimes downright terrified. One particularly memorable occasion entailed Alfred coming across a young bride who had married well—perhaps a little too well—hiding in the cloak closet, not _in flagrante _with an improper paramour, but simply paralyzed with the fear of potentially shaming her newly-acquired in-laws.

And so, as they entered the Grand Salon, Alfred kept a watchful eye on his charge. Bruce had warned him that Annabeth would be a tough nut to crack, that_ filthy lucre _seemed to hold no thrall for her, but Alfred wanted to make sure, nonetheless, that Annabeth wouldn't go catatonic on him. It wouldn't reflect well on him, or the Wayne family, and it certainly wouldn't reflect well on Annabeth and her cause. Nevertheless, neither the noise, nor the scents, nor the sights, seemed to have a noticeable effect on her. As they entered the Grand Salon, she gently detached herself from Alfred's arm and began take in her surroundings, her face never losing its impassive countenance, her spine only stiffening a little more, her chin going a little higher.

_Ah-ha. _Alfred had seen that, before, too—the pride of the indigent, or those who once were; the lurking inferiority complex that they refused to acknowledge; the resentment projected onto the wealthy, and the only insult they could give—utter indifference to whatever luxury the rich chose to parade in front of them. Perhaps Annabeth did find the whole situation overwhelming, but she was too fiercely proud to show it.

More people were flowing in, and the party was beginning to pick up. Alfred neatly nipped two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and gave one to Annabeth. "A few sips of this might make the evening a little more pleasant."

"Do I look like I'm in that much pain?" Annabeth's impassive face cracked a little as she gave him a small smile. She raised her glass to Alfred, who followed suit—but she didn't drink, only pretended to sip. This did not pass unnoticed.

"Here's a couple of people Master Wayne wanted me to make sure that you meet," Alfred muttered in her ear. "See the couple over there, by the fountain?"

Annabeth gazed around, feeling as though she were staring. Was there a right way to do this? "You mean that hamhock?"

Alfred coughed delicately at her crude yet apt descriptions. "Er, yes. 'Hamhock' is Bradford Winston, and his fiancée, Elisa St. Marie, is standing with him. She's the first African-American to win the Gotham Emerging Photographers Award. They're both very lovely young people, I would imagine about your age."

"Bradford Winston…" Annabeth repeated. "I know that name. He's…what did he do? Seems like he was in the paper recently."

"Other than his engagement, he's done very little. But he _is _the son of Gregory Winston…"

"…Gotham's district state senator!"

"…who is also here tonight. Now, Master Wayne wanted me to make sure you know this: if you make friends with his son and his son's fiancée, you will very easily get the ear of the Senator." Alfred raised his champagne glass in their general direction, caught their eye, and began wending his way over to them. "Bradford Winston is a bit of a dilettante, yes, but he's a good soul. And I think you will enjoy the company of Elisa, too…"

They were upon the couple, and a very odd couple they were, too. Bradford was a portly young man, with a ruddy complexion, a receding hairline, bright blue eyes, and an open, cheerful demeanor. His fiancée Elise was short, shorter even than Annabeth, but whereas Annabeth had curves, Elise was simply wiry and skinny, painfully so. Her eyes were a deep brown, and sparkled with life and fun.

"Bruce mentioned he had invited a new friend!" Elisa exclaimed as soon as Alfred had made the introductions. "He said I'd like you. He's right; I like you already."

"You've only just learned my name," Annabeth pointed out, amused.

"Doesn't matter. I can tell you're good people." Elisa leaned in a little. "I love the dress. It was right next to mine, on the clearance rack."

The startled look Annabeth gave her caused Elisa to give a peal of delighted laughter. "We're not all trust fund babies!" she chuckled. "Although Bradford's trying to turn me into one."

Bradford had fallen into a conversation with Alfred, but upon hearing his name, he glanced up and enveloped Elisa into an enormous hug. "She won't let me, though," he told Annabeth. "When I proposed to her, she said, 'if you expect me to give up my job, you'd better go throw that ring off of Wayne Tower with you right behind.'"

"What do you do?" Annabeth asked. Someone in this crowd actually worked? _Fascinating._

"I'm a photographer. I travel to developing nations and take black and white photographs, and when I develop the film, I saturate certain elements in each image with color. It's my signature style." Elisa ducked her head in embarrassment. "Okay, so maybe it's not so much of a job as it is a hobby that I'm trying to turn into a profit. I also teach classes over at the community college…"

"Do you sell many of your pieces?" Annabeth was intrigued. Perhaps, if they were good, and not too expensive, she could get some of Elisa's photographs for Safe Haven. God knew they deserved some art and culture.

"Up until recently, no. But Bruce set me up in one of his galleries, and we've moved a few of the pieces since then. He introduced Bradford and me, too." Elisa gave her fiancé such a glowing look of love that for one split second, Annabeth felt a wave of loneliness break over her. It was gone as soon as it struck, but Alfred had seen a slight flicker in her expression.

The little group continued chatting, until Bradford motioned someone over. "Father, you need to meet this lady! Annabeth de Burgh, this is…"

The night wore on. Alfred steered her from one person to another; more or less, they were all friendly; in all cases, they were either wealthy, influential, or well-connected. Annabeth continued clutching the flute of champagne that Alfred had given to her, although she never took more than a few sips; she was unaware that her every movement and word were being monitored, either by her watchful guide, or else by Bruce Wayne.

For he made his way into her company several times that evening, each time a little bit tipsier, a little bit goofier, a little bit more fond of other peoples' personal space. At one point, he clinked his glass and called for a toast; two hundred people fell quiet, eagerly awaiting whatever nonsensical words the infamous Bruce Wayne was about to utter.

He was surprisingly lucid, however:

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for attending this wonderful housewarming party." He paused and gave his trademark grin, his eyes sparkling in merriment. "I suppose one can never have too many of those. You'll see that everything is exactly as it used to be, and for that, we have the wonderful Alfred Pennyworth to thank. His was the tireless work that made this possible." He glanced around, making sure that everyone was hanging on to his every word, and then delivered the punchline: "Have a wonderful time tonight, everyone. And there's only one house rule." Another pause. "_Don't play with matches."_

There were a couple of scandalized gasps, quickly overruled by the astounded laughter of the younger set, and eventually the applause of everyone. Only a Wayne would burn a house down, then shrug it off, rebuild it, and make fun of the event.

A tall blonde, by name of April, turned to Alfred and Annabeth. She had had her quota of drinky-poos, but fortunately knew when to stop; she was now drinking water from a Waterford crystal tumbler. "That Bruce," she said to Alfred, and then smiled at Annabeth. "His parties are always such an adventure. You never know what's going to happen." She turned to another woman nearby. "Isn't that right, Katie?"

Katie, an older woman with a much-worked on face, nodded her head eagerly. "You were there for the fundraiser for Harvey Dent, right?" she asked April. "And you were, of course, Mr. Alfred. You missed out," she told Annabeth. "The most frightening thing of my life. That Joker man and his thugs just came out of _nowhere. _At least we all managed to clear out of the Manor before the fire…but when the Joker came in, there was no escaping."

"Well, that wasn't Mr. Wayne's fault, was it?" Annabeth pointed out sensibly. "The Joker targeted Dent and his girlfriend. He probably wanted to go for maximum theatricality, and it was bad luck that it was during the fundraiser Mr. Wayne was holding for them."

Katie smiled. "Yes, Bruce and his fundraisers. He takes up the banner of so many causes…what a charming boy. What was he advocating for last month? The humpback whale?"

"The Humphead Wrasse, I believe," Alfred supplied. "It's a type of fish, I think. Apparently Master Wayne found it a very compelling creature."

"And the time before that…I think it was something about helping cure Bubble Boy Disease." April frowned. "Oh, what does it matter? He certainly like a good cause, our Bruce. I hear you're the flavor of the month?" she asked Annabeth.

"Excuse me?" Annabeth's eyes began to blaze, but Alfred interjected smoothly. "Master Wayne has taken a deep interest in Miss de Burgh's employer—a halfway house for women and children in reduced or dire circumstances."

Katie smiled. "Wonderful! Do tell us more. Bruce always has such a good sense for his little projects. He may not have a sensible thought in his head, but he's got a generous heart."

"I heard that, Katie," Bruce chortled as he approached. He took a swig out of his champagne flute. "I happen to know for a fact that Annabeth's work is really going places. I wouldn't be surprised if the issues that Annabeth is tackling soon become part of a political agenda. I'd pay attention, if I were you."

"What sort of politics are involved with helping economically disadvantaged women?" April wondered aloud. "I mean, it's not like you can pass a law that magically makes their money problems go away."

"No, but we can pass laws that have sharper teeth when it comes to protecting women. And we can begin allocating more tax funding into Social Services, so that children aren't shunted around from one dangerous foster home to another." Perhaps it was the few tiny sips of alcohol in her system, but she was feeling a little more mellow; miraculously, she hadn't harangued anyone since she had set foot in the Manor. She went on, gently. "In virtually every part of our society, women are still degraded and marginalized. Just look at the pay disparities between men and women. Look at the lack of police investigators equipped to solved rapes. Think about all of the women who are stalked, or sexually harassed, or feel pressured or are coerced into making bad decisions about sex, or child-rearing. And think—_women are blamed."_

As Annabeth fell silent, she became uncomfortably aware of many eyes watching her—Alfred's, Bruce's, April's, and Katie's, as well as a couple of other passing party-goers. Annabeth glanced uncertainly, almost apologetically at Alfred, the closest thing she had to a sympathetic ally . "Should I be quiet now?"

Katie laughed. "Not at all, my dear. We were simply transfixed by your passion. Bruce," she turned to the host, who was still gazing at Annabeth, "_Where _did you find this lovely creature? She's a breath of fresh air. So much more…_real _than your normal selections." She bestowed a beaming smile of approval on him. "At last, you're making some very good choices. Your parents would be so proud."

Annabeth threw an agonized look at Alfred, who simply seemed amused by the whole misunderstanding. Katie carried on, blissfully unaware. "As for you, my dear, I would very much like to speak with you …perhaps later next week? I'm the wife of the president of Gotham University, you see—I'd like to discuss forming some community partnerships with you." She reached into her purse, dug out a business card. "Call me…but for now, I simply must see what canapés are left."

Far less astute than her conversation partners, April had dropped the thread of conversation as soon as it was polite to do so. Now she grabbed Bruce's arm—"Look! Isn't that Natashcha? Your Russian ballerina?"

Bruce looked to where April was pointing. "So it is! I invited her, but I didn't know if she could make it. Excuse me." He wandered off, sipping from his flute again, April following in his wake.

Once more, Alfred and Annabeth were left alone. Alfred smiled at her. "I told you Master Wayne would take care of you. You've certainly done well for yourself this evening."

He received no response. Annabeth was staring after Bruce, frowning slightly. There was something strange going on, she felt. She stood still for a moment, tuning out the conversations buzzing around her as the wheels turned in her head. And then she turned to Alfred. "Why is Bruce pretending to be drunk?"

For once, Alfred was shaken out of his customary state of _savoir-faire_. In fact, he very nearly looked alarmed. "What?"

"Bruce." Annabeth gestured after him. "He's behaving as though he's had a lot to drink, but I don't think a drop of alcohol has passed his lips. I've watched him—that glass has been at the same level all night. He's _pretending _to drink, Alfred, and _pretending _to get drunk. Why would he do that?"

Before her eyes, she watched Alfred undergo the most curious transformation. One moment, he was a courteous, accessible, friendly host; the next moment, a shadow passed over his face, and his tone became distant, remote. "Perhaps he does it for the same reason you pretend to drink your champagne," he said pointedly. When Annabeth refused to look abashed, Alfred shrugged. "Master Wayne finds it serves his interests best to allow people to see what they think he is, and not what he _truly _is."

Annabeth found this to be a very interesting observation that seemed to substantiate all she had observed in Bruce Wayne. His cluelessness, so quickly followed up with genuine compassion; his cheerful charm and materialism hiding at least a somewhat deeper vein of philanthropy. But… "Then, Alfred, what_ is _he, truly?"

The smile that Alfred gave her was equally sad and enigmatic. "That, my dear, I am not even sure Master Wayne could say."

* * *

The party was really in full-swing now; Annabeth had overheard from someone that over three hundred people had shown up. Long ago, she had given up any hope of doing any more networking; the music was now louder, encouraging some to begin dancing; the crowds were increasing; the crush was greater. Alfred was at her elbow, saying something, but Annabeth could not hear. She was concentrating on something that she had not expected: there was a tense pain in her chest, and she began to feel sweat beading on her brow.

Struggling to remain coherent, Annabeth glanced around. Three hundred people, crushed in cheek by jowl in one room—her vision dimmed for a moment. Her breaths were coming in shallow gasps now. "Alfred." She pulled at his arm. "Are there any gardens I can walk in, or a way to get outside? I need some fresh air."

"Of course, Miss de Burgh…Are you alright?"

"Fine. Fine," she gasped. "Just…a little overheated. I…need a little bit of cool air."

Alfred pointed to a set of French doors at the near side of the room. "That will take you to the Italian gardens; those are the closest." She had already started on her way, ducking and weaving her way through the crowds; Alfred watched her for a moment, frowning in concern. And then he went for Bruce Wayne.

Alfred found him by the indoor fountain, speaking with several models of undetermined European background. They were making him guess their countries of origin, based on their accents. The silly girls had no idea that Bruce knew exactly where each of them were from; he probably spoke their languages and had mastered their accents better than they did.

"Master Bruce."

"Hey, Alfred," Bruce raised his glass to him. "Help me out…I think Juliette is from Sicily, but she says not…where's Annabeth?" He saw Alfred's meaningful look, and extracted himself from the models. "Where'd she go?"

"Outside. She appeared to be having a panic attack of some sort." Alfred glanced back into the crowded salon. "Poor girl, can't say as I blame her. I'm tempted to join her. But that's not the issue…Master Bruce, she's noticing things."

Bruce's easy demeanor vanished. "What things?" There was an edge to his voice.

"Nothing significant. But I think she can tell that you put on an act." Alfred told him about her observations about his drinking.

For a moment, Bruce looked impressed. "She may be a harpy, but she's a damned smart one. Well, I suppose if I'm going to be working with her, she's going to notice that I didn't fail any IQ tests. But I'll have to stay a couple of steps ahead of her, if I want to find out what she's involved with."

"Truly, sir, I'm beginning to doubt that you'll find anything."

"We'll see. In the meantime…did you say she was having a panic attack? I'd better go check on her. Maybe give her some of the patented Bruce Wayne charm while I'm at it."

"You might want to suit up for that, sir," Alfred warned, only half-kidding. "What do you plan to do?"

Bruce was already heading for the Italian gardens. "Where's Natascha?"

* * *

With the cool night air hitting her cheeks, with space to move, with the chest pains fading, Annabeth's heart rate subsided, and she began to breathe normally again. She hadn't expected a panic attack, but she also hadn't expected there to be this many people, either. Fortunately, she'd gotten out in enough time to avoid causing a scene. And now, as it turned out, she had taken a pleasant detour into the Italian gardens to which Alfred had directed her.

She gazed around at the tall shrubs and the pale stones, faintly illuminated by the silver moonlight. For one moment, she truly hated Bruce Wayne for all his wealth and privilege; it hurt her, god, how it hurt her, to think of the disparity in the world, and how much the children in the Narrows would love a garden. And here Wayne was, with several.

But Bruce Wayne could not help an accident of birth, and, fool though he was, he was doing his best to even the odds a little.

_Speak of the devil. _Her solitude was disturbed by the sound of voices, on the other side of the high hedge. Bruce Wayne's voice, low and coaxing; a woman's voice responding, heavily accented. They were having a pleasant conversation, by the sounds of it—

_Oh dear. _Now she was hearing snatches of Bruce's half of the conversation, and it would be enough to make a hooker blush.

"…bend you over the fountain, there…"

A low, accented chuckle.

Annabeth squirmed. This could be very awkward.

"Once we do that, we could try to bend your…" and he went on to describe a position that made Annabeth's eyebrows fly up. Did body parts even go that way?

"…I know you said how much you liked that, but you never gave me the chance to try it…" From the sounds of it, he was now beginning to demonstrate. "Remember that time, up on the penthouse roof? Anyone could have seen us, god, you know how hot that is…"

"…oooh, Bruce!" her voice was clear now. "You are very talented lover, this you know. But I am married woman now. I do not want to, how you say, two-time my husband."

_Oh, christ on toast._

Bruce didn't sound dismayed on the slightest. "Natascha! You didn't tell me! Congratulations!"

"You didn't see ring on my hand? Right here, it is."

"I _am _sorry, oh dear." Bruce chuckled. "Oh well, have to protect my virtue now. You shouldn't proposition an innocent boy like that." Annabeth heard her laugh lightly, and walk back towards the house. And then she heard him moving, too, and too late, she realized he was coming around the hedge, and oh lord, wasn't _this _going to be awkward?

"Annabeth!" Bruce grinned, swayed a little. "I meant to tell you…you looked absolutely lovely this evening."

The entire situation was too ridiculous to even attempt to remark upon. "Thank you."

"Natascha and I were just enjoying the night air, but she's leaving now. Care to join me?"

_Not particularly, _she thought in distaste, but three hours spent in the presence of Alfred had worked surprising wonders on Annabeth. She smiled at him, the absolute picture of graciousness. "Alas, I can't. It grows late, and I must leave soon…but if you're looking for company, well…I'm fairly certain you'll have a fan club waiting for you on your penthouse roof."

She rose from her seat, approached Bruce. He was one odd duck, and no two ways about it. He had spent the last week alternately advancing her cause, making it his own, and trying to provoke sexual tension, and she was beginning to suspect it was some sort of game or diversion to him. Fine. She could screw with him, too. She drew closer, closer than she normally allowed most people to get. Bruce didn't move back; simply remained still, gazing down at her. Once again, his charming, cheerful expression had passed away, leaving a face carved in icy stone, revealing nothing. But when it came to a poker face, no one could beat Annabeth. And it was that poker face she turned up to him now as she drew near to his absolutely still body.

They both remained thus for at least half a minute, neither moving, speaking, or breaking the gaze. Annabeth was close enough to see his nostrils flare; she saw that suddenly, he looked terribly young and confused. Bruce was close enough to see a curious scar, perhaps left over from childhood, by her right eye.

Finally, Annabeth spoke. "I don't know what it is you want from me, Bruce Wayne. But I doubt very much it's something I can give." She smiled at him enigmatically. "Thank you for a lovely evening."

He remained there, in the moonlight, lost in thought, long after she had departed.


	7. Chapter 7

During the day, Gotham City presented a fairly benign face to the world. To a casual observer, it was just another sprawling, vast metropolis, overwhelming with its crowds and its traffic and its generally insane pace. Just like any other metropolis, it had its skyscrapers and slums, its brownstones and businesses, its vociferous vendors, its crushing crowds, and its constant clamor. It had its warehouse district (equal parts industrial buildings and pretentious lofts owned by equally pretentious yuppies), its business district (a complete graveyard after the offices closed and the bridge-and-tunnel crowd returned home), its arts district (much talked about but significantly less patronized), its international district (the universally-agreed upon, more politically-correct term for Chinatown), and even a gay district (conveniently bordering the fashion district). During the day, tourists thronged to it all, eager to experience the entire city...but at night, they wisely retreated to the relative safety of their hotels.

For it was at night that Gotham City underwent a remarkable—and dismaying—transformation, and revealed a far grittier and more malevolent self. It was during the nights that the streets emptied out of all but the least respectable, or sensible, people. It was during the night that the stately architecture of Gotham's historic buildings took on a sinister aspect, looming overhead like a battalion of threatening bullies. It was during the night that the criminal element of the city emerged, reclaiming the streets, lurking and frightening like a horde of inelegant vampires. Few decent, law-abiding citizens cared to be on the streets after dark...which was why Bruce was very interested in finding out why Annabeth was spending her nights there. Not in Bordertown, where she lived, nor midtown, where she worked, but actually deep in the Narrows.

The first night he saw it happen was on a Monday evening, a mere two nights after the gala at the Manor. He had spent the entire day at Safe Haven, mainly talking with Donna about prospective sites for the satellite location, hammering out the terms of his donation and services, and occasionally pausing to interact with a few of the more sociable clients. A time or two, he encountered Annabeth, but neither acknowledged to the other their final, tense exchange that had closed their Saturday socializing. He did notice, however, that Annabeth took care to look exceptionally busy each time he happened to be in her vicinity. And Annabeth noticed his noticing.

He left Safe Haven an hour before she did, but didn't venture far— when she emerged from the building at 7:30 that evening, he was lurking at a newsstand across the street when she emerged and had a prime, unobstructed view of her as she quickly walked off into the deepening night. He followed her, of course, and fortunately, she was quite unobservant—in fact, had no clue that a 6-foot-2, scruffily-dressed man was following close behind, watching her every move. Bruce shook his head quietly at the utter obliviousness of Gotham City's citizens. Sometimes he couldn't help but to wonder if the people in this damned city were bred for victimhood. They embraced it so readily.

For ten blocks, she walked, her stride swift and determined. For ten blocks, he followed, his movements cautious and vigilant. She paused only once, to drop some change into the cup of an inert and clearly ailing homeless man. Finally, she came to her destination: the entrance the metro station for the Old Gotham line.

_The Old Gotham Line? _He pondered this new bit of information as he watched her descending the steps leading to the underground station. _What route is—oh hell._

The Narrows.

_Why the hell is she going there?_

Only one way to find out. Without hesitation, he followed her down the stairs into the subterranean gloom of Gotham's long-neglected, but amazingly still functional subway line. He boarded the metro, unnoticed, with her and another score of people, mainly domestic workers, immigrants, and others who had little choice in their final destination, and quietly he slipped into a seat several rows back. From there, he had a relatively unimpeded view, and could watch and observe Annabeth. She was preoccupied, restive, constantly glancing up and around; it was obvious she was searching for someone. A secret, pre-arranged meeting, maybe? He frowned. The metro was the perfect place, perhaps, to meet with someone with whom you wanted to share illicit information. You were surrounded by strangers.

As the metro carried on to the Narrows, more people boarded. Annabeth gained a seatmate, a very worn out-looking woman who jiggled a fussing baby on her lap. The two women began to talk, and he concentrated on their lips moving, their facial expressions, their body language. As far back as Bruce was seated, he couldn't tell what the two women were saying, but it was quite clear that Annabeth was speaking in earnest. He watched as Annabeth took the baby for a few minutes, continuing to talk to the older woman as she tickled the baby and tried to coax a smile from him. At the metro stop just before the Narrows, the woman arose and took the baby—Bruce watched as they made the switch and saw Annabeth quickly slip something small and white into the woman's hand-a business card. Annabeth and the woman looked at each other for a moment, and then the woman glanced around at the various tired, defeated passengers, as though trying to ascertain that none of them had noticed the exchange. And then the woman and the baby were gone.

Finally they arrived at the Narrows. The last of the metro passengers, Bruce and Annabeth included, trickled off and headed up to the surface streets, where they dispersed into the night. Annabeth moved quickly, now, even faster than before; she crossed the street and a moment later, disappeared into a building that had seen clearly seen better days-the YWCA. Bruce remained across the street, and slunk down into an alley. He'd wait until she emerged, and see what transpired next.

Two hours later, Annabeth reappeared. At this point, she looked nothing like how when she did when she had gone inside: she had traded her suit for jeans and a sweater, a heavy coat, and sturdy steel-toed boots. Her face had taken on an even more forbidding expression, and her hair had been tied back into a ponytail. Surprisingly, she did not head back to the metro, for her home in Bordertown; instead, she took off in the opposite direction, heading straight into the heart of the Narrows. _What the hell was she thinking? S_he seemed to know exactly where she was going, and she walked with an unwavering purpose, her posture challenging anyone who might think to screw with a single female in a nasty neighborhood. Clearly, she was insane. And he was following her right into whatever mess was waiting, so what did that say about _his _state of mind? Bruce was fairly certain Alfred would have plenty of answers to that question.

The next few hours passed in a most surreal manner. Annabeth wandered the streets of the Narrows, wandering into bars, staying sometimes as few as ten minutes, sometimes as long as forty-five. She paused and spoke with prostitutes and homeless men and women; not all of whom welcomed her presence. Others did, however. More than once, she passed women small, brown-paper-wrapped packages. Drugs? Stole goods? Payment of some sort? She made her way through a vast network of alleys, seeming to know her way through them all. And all the time, she talked and listened and distributed unidentifiable items. Intent as she was on her activities, Annabeth was completely oblivious to the fact that she was being followed, and this, Bruce found the most disquieting of all. How on earth did she survive?

Towards 1 AM, Annabeth began to wind down and make her way back to the metro station, her shoulders slumped in fatigue. How many mornings did she come into Safe Haven, still sleepy from a night in the Narrows? How often did she do this? And what was she doing, anyway?

He watched her safely board the metro, and then he called Alfred for the car. He was going to call it a night, too. The night had been frustrating and fruitless: It seemed like the more digging into Annabeth's existence that he did, the more questions arose, while he found less and less answers. Tomorrow night, it would be time to call in some favors, and see what he could discover.

For Tuesday night's venture, he made sure to suit up—the previous night he had had to venture down into the Narrows in civilian garb, and he didn't like it one bit. He was too vulnerable, obviously, and too ill-prepared for any of the multitude of problems that could and usually did arise in that area. So when he paid his visit to the Narrows the next night, the Tumbler was close by, and he was in full battle gear, ready to intimidate, persuade, fight, or frighten, whichever the situation would call for.

His first stop of the evening was one of the many taverns that populated the Narrows—this one was on the outskirts, and while it was as seedy and depressing as the rest of the bars, this one was a little different. This one was run by Mick McCormick's daughter, Maggie, and with the tavern she had inherited all of Mick's larger-than-life personality, along with his determined grit to hang on to the business no matter what. She ran a tight ship—no drugs, and no underaged drinkers. She paid her bartenders well, and treated the regulars like family. She had lived her entire life in the Narrows, and when her parents had grown too old to run the tavern, Maggie took up the cross without a word of complaint. She made enough to pay for her parents' care, to keep the place afloat, and to pay her rent—but in the days when Falcone's men owned the streets, much of the tavern's revenue went straight to them. Oh, how she had begrudged them every hard-earned dime that they had extorted from her, and oh, how happy she had been when Falcone and his men were forced to relinquish their control over the Narrows. Maggie McCormick knew who to thank for it, too, and she had put the word out on the streets that she was happily in the debt of the Batman.

Word had trickled back to him the way it so often did—he had established contacts and networks in the criminal community, mainly small-time dealers whom he had persuaded to mend their ways. They still had their ear to the ground, and they let the Batman know what they heard.

It was time to see how much Maggie McCormick really felt she owed.

He knew that around ten-thirty at night, she made a trash run to the dumpster behind her tavern, and so he made certain to be there then, lurking in the shadows. He stepped forward, into the weak light, as she chucked the bags into the foul-smelling dumpster. She caught sight of him, and merely stood there, not as surprised as she should have been.

"Well now." She gave him the once-over. "You certainly don't look _that _much like a bat."

"You don't seem surprised to see me." He stepped closer to her, noting that she didn't step back. Maggie McCormick, it seemed, was not intimidated by much, including hulking intruders dressed in black armor.

"I figured you'd be by one of these days," she shrugged. "I've been expecting you for a while." She began groping around in her shirt pockets, presumably for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Reckon you'd be needing something, someday."

He watched as she withdrew a cigarette, lit up, and took a long, satisfying drag. "I need information."

She grinned. "You're in the right place then. Most everything comes Maggie McCormick's way." She exhaled a puff of smoke, considerately blowing it in the direction opposite him. "What do you want to know?"

"Annabeth de Burgh. What do you know about her?"

"Annabeth?" Maggie was surprised. "Works down at the Y some, and at some battered woman's shelter, midtown. Some of us call her Jane."

"Jane?"

"Our own little Jane Addams." Maggie chuckled as she said this. "She's a real do-gooder, bless her. What do you want to know about her?"

"She walks around the Narrows at night. Why?"

Maggie took her time in answering his abrupt question. She took a few more drags on her cigarette, and then tilted her head upwards to gaze up at the tiny patch of sky that was visible. She appeared to be thinking, debating what she wanted to tell him. "I don't know why you want to know about her, but you'd better not be wanting to mess with her. She's not very well loved among some of the people down here, but those of us who do like her—we try to look out for her."

"Who doesn't like her?"

"Mainly men. Who else? She comes around here, hanging out in the bars, listening to the neighborhood gossip…trying to recruit clients for that shelter. She gets women and their kids out of bad home situations, tries to help the prostitutes, too. Pissed off more than a few pimps. More than once, she's turned negligent parents in to Social Servics. One mom's kids were taken away—thank god—for and she and a couple of her friends came after Annabeth. Jumped her outside the Y, so thank god there were friends of Annabeth's right there who pulled 'em off of her. They messed her up pretty good—cracked a few ribs, gave her a nasty black eye." Maggie smiled grimly. "But Annabeth held her own pretty well. She throws a mean punch."

"So that's what she's doing at night? Walking around and trying to find people to help?"

"Crazy, huh? But basically, yeah. Since so few cops come up this way, I guess she figures someone needs to be out here helping folks. Not that she can do much, and I gotta say—I think she's a little nuts. She's been doing this for a couple of years now, and I'm amazed she's gone this long without trouble. It's only a matter of time before she gets effed up." She didn't look pleased by the prospect, either.

"I want to know something else. What can you tell me about the Arrows?"

Maggie's reaction was both interesting and alarming to observe. All the bluster went out of her, and her face went completely pale. "Shit. Don't even talk about them."

"I need to know."

"You're worse than a shrink, you know that? Some things it's better for us down here not to think about, but then there you are, probing, asking questions, making us relive this shit." She glanced at him, saw him staring at her, still waiting, unaffected by her words. "Okay. Fine. The Arrows? The biggest game in town, now. Not as powerful as Falcone and Maroni, but give them time. And in some ways, they're scarier. There's some freaky men in that mob—real shits. The main pimp who oversees their women, they call him Boy-o, I think. He's a real piece of work, from what I hear."

"How?"

"I've heard he's got some creative methods for keeping the women in line—he gets really rough. Not a nice man." Maggie wasn't happy with the turn this conversation had taken. "Look, the Arrows haven't made their way to this part of the Narrows yet. But I hear a lot more about them than I used to, and I really think they're going to be expanding. You should be watching out for them."

He watched her for a moment as she stubbed out her cigarette and peered nervously up and down the alley, as though she expected some goon to take her out, right then and there, for the information she had just passed on. Maggie had fought long and hard for her business, small and struggling though it was, and still hoped for some version of the American dream. But he knew deep down that this little tavern on this shabby street would be as close as she would get. She would toil, year after year, aging and working hard and waiting, always waiting for her ship to come in. Here was an area that both god and Gotham City had long ago forgotten, and partially because of this, hard-working, essentially good people like Maggie would never experience what life beyond the Narrows could be like. Maggie's American dream would only lead to a nightmare of disappointment. The pity and guilt he felt at that moment, as he watched the woman light another cigarette as a way to numb the awfulness, were profound and awful, yet also a relief to feel—because at least that meant he could still feel.

"Thank you." The words were gruffly spoken, but heartfelt. And then he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Maggie alone once more, to struggle on with her evening, her business, her life.

Wednesday night, and Annabeth was out again in the Narrows. The Batman suited up to follow her much as Bruce had done in civilian clothes earlier in the week, but this time, he followed her by way of the rooftops and fire escapes. Again, she wandered the sidewalks, streets, and alleys, talking with the locals, eliciting information, passing out tiny packages. He watched her closely—and when she began wandering back into an amazingly intricate maze of poorly-lit alleys, he finally decided to make his presence known.

He dropped down behind her, silently. Given her previous history of lack of observation, he assumed that she wouldn't notice him right away, but here he was surprised—as soon as he landed behind her, she somehow sensed him, and jerked around with a switchblade gleaming in her hand. She lunged at him, but it did no good, of course; she had no technique, and he blocked her attack and disarmed her with almost insulting ease. The blade ended up on the ground and her wrist in his iron grip.

Nonetheless, she glared at him, unfazed by her failure and spitting defiance. "You should really be careful about sneaking up on a girl in a dark alley."

The retort came to his lips before he could stop himself. "Maybe a girl should be careful about going into a dark alley in the first place."

The Batman was not expecting the sudden rage that lit her eyes on fire, nor was he expecting the steel-toed boot that she swung back and into his shin. It was the hardest kick she could deliver, but even then, there was little satisfaction to be had—with his armor, he barely registered the contact. Still, it was impressive that she had managed to go on the offensive while still in his grasp.

"You're a fucking bastard," she spat. "You know that?"

He neither answered nor released his grip on her wrist. His eyes moved to her overcoat's bulging pockets, and before she could protest, with his free hand he began groping through her coat pockets.

"_What the hell?" _The rage in her eyes became maniacal but also tinged with a little fear, and she began to struggle, attempting to extricate herself from his grip. The only result was a wrist that she was certain would be sore and bruised in the morning. A moment later, he yanked out one of the packages she had been passing out to the prostitutes.

"What's this?" he demanded. "Drugs? Are you their supplier?" He let her go then, and she backed up, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched him tear open the package.

He gazed in disbelief at the contents he held in his hand. A plastic case with twenty-eight individual, multi-colored pills. It took a moment for him to register and recognize them—and when he blurted out his reaction, it was all he could do to keep the surprise from altering his voice into non-Batman timbres.

"_Birth control pills? _You're giving them _birth control pills_?_"_

Annabeth was beginning to calm down, and she was simultaneously regaining power over her sharp tongue. "I'm surprised you know what those are. Somehow I didn't think you got laid enough to worry about contraceptives."

"But why are you giving them birth control?" Incredulity was definitely beginning to creep into his voice.

"Why not, more like? Jesus fucking christ, It's not like the women down here working the streets have health insurance. And a lot of times their pimps don't give them enough money for the pills. I help them out where I can." She glared at him. "At least I'm trying. Who the hell are you, anyway? The morality police? Did the Ayatollah take over last weekend or something?"

It made sense. It made a great deal of sense, he had to grudgingly admit to himself. There was no time to feel foolish, however—he was still determined to get more answers from her. But before he could ask any thing else, press her for more information, a loud crash and a strangled cry reverberated through the alley in which they stood.

The Batman moved quickly, grabbing Annabeth by the arm and tugging her behind him, backing up until she was sandwiched between his back and the wall. "Be quiet," he growled.

In vain Annabeth tried to move out from behind him. She had a fairly strong suspicion about the origins of the noise, and every instinct she possessed now screamed at her to get to the source of the noise so she could try to help. But instead, she was stuck between a rock and a hard place—or more accurately, a wall and an overly-muscled man with a misguided notion of protection. "Let me go!" she hissed.

He moved then, cat-like in his grace and speed, heading towards the commotion. "Stay here."

Of course, she didn't stay there—while he was moving forward with stealthy yet steady speed, Annabeth was bolting past him, her boots pounding the pavement as she sprinted ahead, deeper into the alley, both guns blazing, at least figuratively. She heard voices up ahead, and more of that crying, too. Behind her, she heard the Batman running now, too, and now they were racing side by side, hurtling towards the unknown danger—

And then they were there: Two men, standing over the prostrate, possibly unconscious form of a young woman. Annabeth instinctively knew what they were starting to do, and she didn't hesitate—one of the them glanced up at Annabeth and the Batman as they finally realized they weren't alone, and all he had the opportunity to see was Annabeth's heavy boot coming up to meet his chin. And then he was out cold. The other man reacted with a little more speed—he was on his feet and was about to lunge for Annabeth when the Batman landed on him like a ton of vengeful, cranky bricks.

Both men safely then immobilized, Annabeth turned to the woman lying on the ground. She knelt beside her and swore softly.

The Batman joined her. "Who is she?"

Annabeth gently cradled the woman's wrist and began to feel for a pulse. "Her name's Jessie Lucas. She's a prostitute that works this area…she went missing a few days ago. That's who I've been looking for…some of the women around here were worried, said she'd been fucked up a lot more, lately." Annabeth gently lifted the woman's eyelid and peered closely. "Jessie…hey, _Jessie."_

The woman moaned softly, but didn't sit up.

"_Shit. _I can't see a goddamned thing." Annabeth turned to him. "You got a light?"

Of course he did, a tiny, ultra-strong maglight in his utility belt. He immediately pulled it out and passed it to her as she continued to examine the woman.

"Pupils are constricted. Lips and fingernails are blue." Annabeth frowned. "Jessie, can you hear me? Can you breathe?"

The woman moaned again, and began to stir.

"I think she's overdosing." Annabeth pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. "She's breathing. Can you put her into the recovery position while I call an ambulance?"

He nodded once, and began to gently move Jessie's body. He listened as Annabeth called in the overdose, but froze when he heard her high, panicked voice, so very different from her previous, calm tones.

"There was just a drive-by shooting here in the Narrows, and a child's been hit…in the alley between Dunn and Kingston Avenues. Oh god, please hurry, I think she's bleeding to death!"

Annabeth snapped her phone shut and turned back to Jessie. "You got her in recovery? Good –wait, tilt her head up a little more." She reached down and stroked Jessie's forehead, once, with surprising tenderness. "Christ, Jessie."

"Why'd you tell them it was a gun fight?" The Batman was speaking quietly now, his voice slightly less menacing.

Annabeth grimaced. "Yeah, that was a bit of a whopper, wasn't it? But you think they'd come out here if I told them it was a drug overdose? They'd come out two hours later. It's just another junkie, to them. But give them a child, potentially bleeding out? Bad PR. So we get an ambulance out here on that pretext. They'll see her and do the rest"

"What's she to you?"

"She's Jessie. She's twenty years old. She's been out here for three years, doing this. I don't know what her life was like before this, but now it's hell." She lifted Jessie's arm so that he could see the web of angry trackmarks creeping up the wasted limb. "She's been doing heroin for a while now."

"How'd it happen?"

"Her pimp gave it to her, and keeps her supplied. It's easier to control your prostitutes if you get them addicted, they'll do anything for a hit. Makes them a lot more compliant. _Jessie. _Come on, sweetie, stay with us."

Another moan.

Annabeth's attention turned back to the still-unconscious men nearby. "And christ, those two were about to do god knows what with her. I'd really like to go over there right now and castrate them—do you still have my blade?"

"Don't." His voice had some of his former command, but there was less hostility than there had been before. "You don't want to do that. Help Jessie."

_Help Jessie. _They returned their attention to Jessie, who occasionally moaned and twitched. Annabeth fell silent, maintaining a vigil over her alongside the man who had suddenly, unexpectedly become an ally. In the distance, they began to hear the wail of the sirens, and reluctantly, the Batman arose. "I have to go. They can't see me here."

She nodded, glancing away from Jessie for a moment to contemplate him as he stood over her. Almost unwillingly, but with heartfelt sincerity, "Thank you," she told him.

The Batman gave her a long, steady look, but said nothing. A moment later, he withdrew his grapple gun, aimed for the flanking building, and shot. His wire thus secured, he began scaling the building and commenced his escape into the night—but not before he and Annabeth gave each other one final look.

When the paramedics and police finally arrived, they found no gunshot wounds, no guns, no blood, no child, even. Just Annabeth, hovering over Jessie, and ready to give them for taking so long.

Back at the Batcave, the Batman and Alfred conferred over all that they had learned and observed that evening.

It was late—early in the morning, rather, and Alfred's handcrafted chamomile tea brew was beginning to have a relaxing affect on the Batman, just as the butler intended. The cape, utility belt, and cowl were off, thus putting him into the strange, halfway point of the transition between the Batman and Bruce Wayne. He sat at the work table, gazing across at Alfred, who sat, listening and processing all he had been told.

The Batman began to pull off the arm guards. Sleep was close at hand, and suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to spend it in his own bed, with none of the Batsuit anywhere in the vicinity. "What do you think, Alfred?"

The older man shook his head. "I think Miss Annabeth must be insane for doing what she does. It's dangerous, pure and simple. Dangerous—and courageous and noble and kind."

The Batman was forced to agree with him. "She keeps tabs on women in trouble in the neighborhood. She passes out birth control to some of the prostitutes. She's like a woman possessed—why does she do all this?"

To this, Alfred had no answer—but he did have a question. "Should I take this to mean you are abandoning your investigation into her involvement in those murders?"

The knee guards came off next, and then the leg guards. "I think I have to, Alfred. There doesn't seem to be any evidence to implicate her…and it just doesn't make sense." He paused in his disrobing, thinking of Annabeth, her fierceness, her dedication, her compassion...and her blazing eyes, her tightly-coiled body harnessing so much energy, and her rare but compelling smile. "The truth is, the more I get to know her, the less I think her capable of it." An uncomfortable thought began to niggle its way into his head. "And Alfred…the more I get to know her, the more I _want _her to be innocent of it. I don't want her to be involved." As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. Which was perhaps the most disturbing revelation of the evening.

Not long after, they made their way back up to the Manor, and Bruce Wayne was soon in his bed, burrowed under a down comforter, slipping into a deep sleep…in which his dreams were filled with fleeting images of Annabeth and the Narrows and a sinister sense of foreboding.

It was a most horrible set of circumstances that finally, completely exonerated Annabeth in the eyes of both the Batman and Bruce Wayne. Two days later, the Batman got a terse communication from Commissioner Gordon—three more women had been killed, all in one night. All were killed just as Carrolly Cooper, Lizzie Salvadore, and Jeana Wilson had been, and none of them had any connections with the Arrows. Someone was still killing women, and it wasn't because of Annabeth.


	8. Chapter 8

In the months following the hysteria and pandemonium that the Joker and Harvey Dent had unleashed upon Gotham, Commissioner Gordon had found himself charged with a battery of duties which he found not only distasteful, but absolutely anathema to his solid sense of what was right and fair. Most of these duties involved vilifying the Batman in one form or another, and while Gordon followed through on his promise to the Batman-he denounced him, chased him, outlawed him, and raised public outcry against him, he had done it with pain in his righteous heart and shame in his honest eyes. He had come to regard the Batman as a comrade, and comrades did not abandon each other when the war was raging. Of all the actions he had had to take against the Batman, however, nothing hurt him more than when he had had to destroy the bat signal. That rainy night that he had taken an ax to it and shattered the searchlight was one of the worst nights of his career, and he had gone home that night to his family with a deep vein of bitterness taking root in his soul.

However, Gordon was a fighter, and he knew that he still had one of the most remarkable and courageous comrades that a warrior could hope for. And this comrade didn't need a signal to beckon him to the field of battle. This was why Gordon was waiting on the roof of the MCU, the night that three more women turned up murdered. Shortly after he had declared the Batman a fugitive, an encrypted cell phone had made its way into Gordon's possession—he still wasn't sure how, other than knowing that it had been sitting on his desk one morning as he arrived at work. As soon as he saw it there (accompanied by a bag of fresh bagels, lox, and cream cheese and a thermos of coffee, all undoubtedly originating from the same source) he had known who it was from, and what it was for. But even then, even with that direct link to the Dark Knight, Gordon rarely needed it. Usually, the Batman _just knew _when there was trouble, and while Gordon didn't like to admit it, a lot of the times the Batman knew before he did.

That night, Gordon had the not-entirely-comforting satisfaction of being the first one to know, and having to call the number on the encrypted phone. And now he waited on the rooftop, gazing up at the murky sky, waiting for his comrade to appear. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the roof, the ever-loyal Detective Montoya stood guard, prepared to chase away any cops who might be tempted to head up to the roof for a smoke break. As he waited, and considered his unit, Gordon quietly thanked his lucky stars and bats that he had at least a few honest cops on his team.

Gordon sighed and settled into a crouch. It was almost midnight, and he should have been home hours ago. Since the horrific events that had come to pass with Dent, his home life had taken a turn for the worse. Being a cop's wife was never an easy job, but in Barbara Gordon's case, she had experienced a little too much trauma in too short a period of time, and her patience had long since worn thin. She wasn't coping well, hell, he wasn't coping well, and they certainly weren't coping well together. Now their young son was having nightmares, and Gordon's insurance simply didn't cover the kind of counseling that the whole family needed. Things were falling apart, and he had no idea how to fix them.

"Taking a break?"

The all-too-familiar voice brought Gordon out of his reverie. He stood up, suddenly aware of how small, how insignificant he looked next to the man who emerged out of the shadows, and was immediately annoyed that he felt insignificant at all. Stuff him into black armor and give him a mini-tank and he'd be intimidating, too...but the everyday suit jackets that Gordon favored simply didn't have the same effect. Perhaps just as well; Gordon preferred to be the good cop. Fear was not his specialty. "No breaks," he told the Batman. "No breaks for a very long time. This just turned into a major shitstorm."

"What do you know?"

"Three murders, committed within the last eight hours. Same M.O.-each of the victims were beaten to death. I've got Detective Bullock working the crime scenes right now." Gordon closed his eyes as he recalled the murder scenes. By Gotham City's hardened, bloodthirsty standards, these murders weren't the most shocking, but there was still a disturbing element of brutality present that evoked a powerful sense of revulsion within Gordon.

"Who were the victims?" Clearly, the Batman was in an all-business mood. Behind the mask, and hidden from Gordon, however, his mind was in a turmoil; this situation was getting much messier. What on earth was going on? "Is this a serial killer?"

"I don't know." Gordon was frustrated by the rapid escalation, and disturbed, too. "The victims are Ronald Dieter, also called 'Stinger.' He was a very successful pimp in the Narrows, probably the most powerful pimp, too. Last count, he pimped about seventy-five women. Second victim: Tallulah Bellamere. She was a madam of a brothel—again, in the Narrows, but in a different part. Her business—" Here Gordon grimaced at the word—"Employed about twenty women. It was the biggest in her area. The last victim was Angie Holman...she was a higher class prostitute, operated out of mid-town."

"Each of them were involved in the sex industry." The Batman's tone was flat and revealed nothing, but belied his restless thoughts, already jumping ahead, processing, considering. "None of them were involved with the Arrows?"

"We're still looking into that, but at first appearances, it would seem not." Gordon shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense. They were killed the same way the others were, most likely the same person, but _why? _Why are the Arrows targeting these people? And why kill them this way? They have professional hitmen that can get the job done, no mess. This—this is messy. This is personal. Why?"

Gordon was voicing the same questions that were running through the Batman's head, questions that he could not begin to answer before looking at the evidence, the victims, their histories. Technically, in keeping with how he had operated in the past, this was not something that should concern him any more-it didn't directly tie back to the Arrows, not yet, anyway. But it was serious, and Gordon had thought it was worth his attention, and too, the Batman had an instinct which was telling him to investigate this. Perhaps it was an instinct that had been brought into the world through a painful labor, during a tour of a halfway house with a certain harridan who loathed him, but that was neither here nor there.

Annabeth. Undetected, unbidden, she had popped into his thoughts. Given this latest development, he was now confident she was in no obvious way connected to these victims, had no obvious reason for wanting them dead. This was more of a relief than he wanted to admit; the more he learned about Annabeth, the more he knew that this was not something she would be involved in, unless she was trying to save these people-even the pimp and the madam. The sense of relief he felt was both disconcerting and disturbing: the former feeling because why should her innocence matter to him, really? and the latter feeling because this was not something that he should be thinking about when trying to unleash his brand of justice upon Gotham.

Gordon was still talking, blissfully unaware of the thoughts tumbling through the head of his companion. Ruthlessly, the Batman crushed all thoughts of Annabeth and brought his mind back to the present. "...got the files for the three victims, along with initial photographs of the crime scene. I've made copies of everything," Gordon was saying. "Detective Bullock's been collecting what evidence there is; the crime scenes have been processed, but if you want, you can take a look." He passed the files along to the Batman, and as he slid them into the large gloved hand that Batman extended, felt a tiny feeling of relief come into his spirit, which instantly sparked deep shame. Since when had he become so dependent on this man? Why on earth had he ever decided to trust him? At first, Gordon's decision to accept the help of the Batman had been just something to float the city through the rough times...but the rough times just kept coming. And now he was forever in the debt of this possibly unbalanced man, whoever the hell he was, and he was compromising his career, and pissing off his wife and putting his family through hell...and what if the Batman decided, some time, that he didn't want to do this any more? What then? Could he do this on his own? Did he even have any business, being Commissioner?

"We can't do this forever, you know," he told the Batman.

The weariness and defeat in Gordon's voice caught the Batman's attention. He drew closer to Gordon, closer than he usually got, so close that Gordon was able to see the intensity in the Batman's eyes, the grim line of his mouth. "There's no such thing as forever," he told Gordon. "Only now, and the possibility of tomorrow. We have to make that possibility a reality." He tightened his grip on the files Gordon had given him. "We all do our part, and try to make things right."

Gordon snorted. "Since when did you go to cheerleading camp?"

"I like the uniforms."

The two men stood there in silence for a few moments. When the Batman spoke again, his voice had a curiously...human note to it. "How's your family?"

"Bad." Something in Gordon's voice declared this an off-limits subject, and so the Batman wisely respected the boundary, even as he then did something that broke every other tacitly-understood boundary that each man had set in their working relationship-quickly, before he could change his mind, he reached out, gripped Gordon's shoulder, and gave it a firm, brief squeeze. "Go home. Sleep. I'll see what I can find out. I'll be in touch tomorrow." Just as quickly, he withdrew, darted to the end of the building, took a leap, and was gone.

For a long time after, Gordon remained on the roof, gazing up at the sky, lost in thoughts about his city and his family, about criminals and crime-fighters, and about men who had to take off their mask and costume at some point. He thought about the Batman, and wondered where he had gone, and what he did when the suit came off. And when he was finished with the meanderings of his many thoughts, he left MCU and returned home. There, Gordon quickly fell asleep, but not before embracing each of his family and expressing his love.

The next morning, when Gordon returned to work, there was a single pom-pom lying on his desk.

After he finally returned to the Manor, after he finally shed his armor, after he finally became Bruce Wayne once more, he collapsed into his bed and waited for sleep to come. But sleep had other ideas. As the clock ticked on towards dawn, he lay in his massive bed, wide awake, gazing up at the ceiling and out into the darkness of his bed chamber. Normally he could shut out his thoughts and go into a deep, regenerating, trance-like sleep, but this was not one of those nights. There were too many thoughts, too many emotions. He could shut them out while operating within his Batman persona, but that meant that they came crashing into his awareness twice as noisily when he finally acknowledged them. Tonight, there were many people in his thoughts: Commissioner Gordon, his face worn and haunted; so many of the people of Gotham whom he had helped; more of the people of Gotham whom he had failed...Rachel. She was never far away in his mind, her voice always echoing in his ears, her striking face seared into his memory. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget the woman that he had loved and failed, trying to forget her wide, intense eyes, her subtle smiles, her strong spirit...and as he tried to forget Rachel, his thoughts somehow transitioned themselves to another strong woman with blazing eyes...

His eyes popped open and he sat up quickly, more than a little surprised at the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken. Thinking about Annabeth in bed was not only disturbing, but also felt a little inappropriate...until he remembered how she looked at the party, dressed in that black gown, her hair pulled back, revealing the graceful sweep of her neck.._.perhaps thoughts of her in at this particular location aren't that misplaced, _he thought ruefully as he settled back against the bank of goosedown pillows. As he tried to concentrate on breathing deeply, evenly, as he tried to bring on sleep, he remembered how Annabeth looked as she leaned over Jessie, trying to keep the poor woman in the land of the living. As he recalled her concern, her tenderness, her devotion to the forgotten people of Gotham, it became clear to him that the thought transition from Rachel to Annabeth was not so surprising—the two women were remarkably similar. Neither one of them had ever been in awe of either Bruce or the Batman, both of them had committed their lives to an endless crusade; both of them were, in their own way, beautiful, and it was their passion and strength and drive which were the ultimate hallmarks of their beauty. As Bruce burrowed deeper under the blankets, he realized that this was the first time he had thought of Rachel since she was killed without feeling like his heart was being skewered within his chest. When had his grief begun to subside? What had been the catalyst? Meeting Annabeth? Where did Rachel end and Annabeth begin? More to the point, where did his feelings for Rachel end and his feelings for Annabeth begin? And come to think of it..._he had feelings for Annabeth?_

Bruce groaned audibly and hoisted himself out of bed. There would be no sleep for him this night.

Four hours later, as Alfred began his morning rounds, he poked his head into the master bedchamber and saw the empty bed. The bedding was mussed, but Master Bruce's silk robe and pajama set had been carefully folded and set at the foot of the bed. The velvet drapes were already pulled back, letting in the sunlight that always shone more brilliantly when one managed to get away from the murk and smog and gloom of the city.

After pausing in the kitchen to acquire some breakfast foods, Alfred headed down to the Batcave. The Batman was right where Alfred expected him to be: a his work area, poring over files, papers, photographs, just as he had been the night that—

_Oh no. _"Has someone else died, sir?"

The Batman glanced up briefly. "Three more people. Have you read the papers yet?"

"Not yet, sir. I was bringing them down to you."

The Batman rose and came over to where Alfred stood. "This is top priority. There's something wrong here...things aren't adding up. I think there's something bigger going on here, and I don't know what. There's not enough clues." He ran his fingers through his dark-brown hair and then rubbed his eyes. Alfred noted immediately that he hadn't slept—the signs were subtle, but obvious to his sharp eyes ."Take a look at the files, see what you think."

He watched as Alfred accepted the files, fished his spectacles out of his shirt pocket, and settled down at his own workspace, an elegant antique Chippendale that Bruce has specially ordered for him when they rebuilt the Manor. If Alfred had ever resented being brought into Bruce Wayne's second life, he had never expressed it. If he had ever had any misgivings, he kept them to himself. The man was loyalty personified. He believed in what the Batman stood for, yes, but more than that, he believed in Bruce Wayne.

Finally Alfred looked up from the files. He had schooled his refined British features into an expression of neutrality, not revealing any dismay over the brutal details. "A prostitute, a madam, and a pimp?" He pursed his lips. "No connections, other than the sex trade?"

"None that are coming to the attention of investigators." The Batman moved closer, so that he was standing over Alfred's desk. "Look at the photographs of the victims. They were beaten to death, just like the others."

The two men studied the photos, each deeply disturbed by the bloodied remains of the victims. Whoever had killed them had done a very thorough job, as though he or she were driven to bludgeon every part of the victims that could be recognized as human.

"Why beat them to death?" Alfred wondered aloud. "That seems to indicate, sir, that these are crimes of passion. Is this a serial killer, striking at random, or does he have an agenda? And what is the significance of these three? Why them? How do they tie back into the women who were killed previously?" He looked up at the Batman, his eyes brightening as a possibility suddenly occurred to him. "Do you think it's a message?"

"A message about what? To whom?"

"A message to people in the sex industry, perhaps. Perhaps these murders aren't about passion or insanity or revenge. Perhaps there's supposed to be a purpose here." Another thought occurred to Alfred. "These murders...they don't tie in to your friend Miss de Burgh, do they?" A satisfied smirk indicated that he had already guessed the answer.

"Annabeth? No. And she's not my friend."

"Of course not, sir. Because your social calendar is completely booked up with hordes of reasonably attractive female social workers that you decide to take under your wing, as mere acquaintances. How could I have assumed otherwise?"

"Alfred..." the Batman growled, but it simply didn't work. Alfred was no more intimidated by the Batman than Rachel or Annabeth had ever been. "I was investigating her, hence my interest." He avoided Alfred's shrewd eyes as he said it, and knew that Alfred knew the truth.

"She's a very lovely lady, your friend Miss de Burgh." Alfred spoke with confidence. "And after what you told me about her the other night, I think she is every bit as unhinged as you are. But I knew that she had nothing to do with the murders-she couldn't have. She wouldn't have."

The Batman's interest was growing, in spite of his attempts to curb it. "Oh? How do you know that?"

Alfred's silence spoke volumes, and for once, the older man looked guilty. "Alfred, what do you know that I don't? What did you do?"

The expression of guilt deepened.

"Alfred?" The Batman was beginning to be disturbed. Had his butler gone renegade on him? "Did you hack into her files? Find out something that's classified, confidential?"

Alfred busied himself with the files, shuffling the papers and photographs back into order. His silence confirmed the Batman's suspicions. But before the Batman could say anything, reproach him, press him for details, Alfred finally broke his silence. "I did hack into some files over at County, sir, after the party."

"Why then?"

"I saw the way you looked at her, sir, all night." Alfred's gaze was penetrating, all-knowing, and the Batman found he couldn't protest or deny anything. Alfred was older, wiser, and probably knew him better than he knew himself.

"Are you going to tell me what you learned?"

"No." Alfred's tone brooked no argument. "It was wrong, what I did, and I won't compound that wrong by revealing what I learned. It's not my story to tell." He paused, and the Batman could see a struggle taking place within Alfred's heart. When he spoke again, the Batman could see the deep concern in his eyes. "But I will tell you this, sir. Watch over her. Someone needs to."

* * *

In Gotham City, as in most places across America, Sunday nights were generally peaceful and relaxing, the calm before the storm of another workweek, when family or friends gather togethered for a few last minutes of pleasant companionship and activities to sustain them until the next weekend. It was a lovely concept, really, but a concept completely lost on Annabeth. While Donna was out at swanky bar with her current lover, while Janey and Jason were popping popcorn and watching a movie, while Maya was staffing the night shift at Safe Haven and swapping gossip with the clients, while Bruce Wayne and Alfred were working together in the Batcave, while even Commissioner Gordon and his wife declared a temporary ceasefire for to conduct board game night in an atmosphere of strained cheer, Annabeth was holed up in her apartment, alone.

_She fucking hated Sundays._

Completely aside from the fact that she had no family with whom she could while away the peaceful hours, she hated Sunday nights because she knew, all over the city, for every family spent in pleasant pasttimes, there were husbands and wives and partners and boyfriends and girlfriends who were unhappy to return to work and drudgery and misery and monotony of Monday, and so they would drink and grow angry, and they would take it out on each other and their children. As Annabeth sat on the floor by her couch—the couch being occupied by her two completely slightly spoiled pets—on a Sunday evening almost two weeks after Bruce Wayne had waltzed into her work and turned everything upside down, she allowed her mind to drift beyond her home and into the Gotham evening, where she knew that men and women were doing horrific things to each other and their children. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to ignore the heavy burden on her heart, and then tried to force her mind away from the unhappiness she knew was currently unfolding throughout Gotham. There would be time enough to fight it tomorrow.

Theoretically, she could have spent her evening patrolling the Narrows, but while she may have been obsessed—"certifiably psycho," according to Donna—Annabeth knew her limits. She had been out every night for the past week, either at Safe Haven or the Y or the hospital or the Narrows, only getting five hours of sleep a night, maximum. Add all this to the thirteen-hour days she regularly put in at Safe Haven, and anyone could see that she was about two good deeds away from collapse.

Hence being at home on a Sunday night, doing nothing more than dreading the week ahead. Normally, she loved her little condo—she had purchased it shortly after starting to work at Safe Haven, and she had only been able to afford it because of the housing grant offered by the Wayne Foundation to "conscience workers"—teachers, nurses, social workers, librarians, cops. And of course, the condominium building itself was a spawn of the unholy godhead that was the Wayne Real Estate Holdings, Wayne Enterprises, and Wayne Construction. The damned building was well-built and reasonably attractive; Annabeth had to admit that the Wayne Family certainly believed in quality and responsibility. But oh, how it burned her up to know that she owed something else to Bruce Bloody Wayne, especially when that something she owed came in the form of a cozy, lovingly-decorated home that she would have never have had a chance to own, otherwise.

Annabeth gritted her teeth and briefly considered finishing off the bottle of Merlot that had been in the fridge for almost a month. That wouldn't help matters either; she couldn't hold her liquor worth a damn, and the last thing she needed was to be hung over on a Monday evening.

Her cell phone rang, and she heaved herself up and headed to the direction where the chimes were coming from. It was sitting on the counter, right where she'd left it when she'd come in at five-thirty AM that morning. No one had called all day, up until now, and of course, the caller was Janey.

"Hey Janey."

"Hey you. Happy Sunday! Are you sulking?"

"I'm _not_ sulking," Annabeth said sulkily.

"That's right! You try to stir it up every now and then—I forgot. Tonight you're _moping."_

Annabeth smiled in spite of herself. "You're an asshole."

"And you're a jackass. What the hell are you doing sitting there all alone? Come over here and watch a movie with us! Jason picked up a really good one from the library."

"What's it called?"

"No clue. But you'd like it. I think the characters frown a lot. And die." Janey chuckled at her own joke. "C'mon, come over. It'll be fun."

Annabeth began puttering around the kitchen, trying to decide if she wanted to make some dinner, or if it wasn't worth the bother. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay in this damned condo until it's my home again, and I've chased _him _out of it." She didn't have to elaborate on who or what she was referring to; since the Batman had paid her that nocturnal visit, she had felt unsafe, violated, exposed in her own lovely home. And Janey knew it; Annabeth had described the uneasiness that plagued her waking hours, and the nightmares that had begun to plague her sleep.

Janey sighed. "You sure do like to be intimate with your demons, don't you?"

"Who the hell else is there to cuddle?" Annabeth decided not to bother with food, and instead pulled some coffee out of the freezer. "Anyway, I've got an early morning tomorrow. God only knows what shit has come up since the weekend. And Wayne's going to be back again tomorrow, and Donna's going to make me babysit him. I can guarantee it."

"Wayne? Wait—he hasn't moved on to the next diversion? I think I read somewhere that there's some dingo show coming to town. Try to distract him with that."

Annabeth sighed. "The whole damned place is in an uproar. The clients have practically made him a mascot." Actually, if she weren't so resentful of his presence at Safe Haven, she would have been impressed with how much success his patronage was bringing to them.

"I think it's time you get over it, Annabeth. Sounds like he's going to be there for a while. And what are you complaining about—a cute rich guy trying to flirt with you as he throws money your way?"

"When, exactly, did I become a prostitute? And why the fuck am I not getting paid more?" Annabeth demanded. "I just know that this is some damned little hobby of his, and he doesn't get the enormity of what we do. It's just another game to him. And in the meantime, my boss has me practically whoring myself out to him to keep his patronage. I think she thinks it's funny…How the hell did I become a joke?"

"Probably because you take yourself way too seriously. I mean, come on. You think Donna would have this much fun if she had had Maya bring in Wayne's sponsorship? Let's face it, your boss has a twisted sense of humor. But at least she has one."

_Ouch. _"I have a sense of humor!" Annabeth protested. "It's just subtle. You have to dig a little to get to it."

"A little? I'd hit China before you'd crack a joke."

"Janey!"

"Okay, fine. You have a sense of humor. But you have no joy. No sense of living." Janey could banter as well as anyone, but she could not hide the concern in her voice. "I worry about you. There's more to life than what you're doing."

_And she doesn't even know the half of it, _Annabeth thought grimly, but wisely kept her mouth shut as Janey continued on with her well-intentioned lecture. Getting a life…meeting people…taking some time for herself…not getting discouraged and losing sight of the good they did—_oh, that one's new, she hasn't used that before—_

"Annabeth. Did you listen to a word I just said?"

"Um." Annabeth wouldn't lie to her oldest friend. "Parts of it? It was a good speech. I'll pay attention more the next time. Promise."

"Asshole. Oooh—Jason just brought in the popcorn. And sour patch kids!" Janey's love of food overruled everything, including her love of Annabeth. "Look, I've got to go. But seriously, try to get over Bruce Wayne. At least for now, you two are working towards the same end. Sounds like you're going to be stuck with him for a while, so be nice! He won't know what to think. And anyway, it takes less effort than being mean."

Annabeth hated it when Janey was right—because when she was right, she was _very _right.

After hanging up, she puttered around the apartment, cleaning in a desultory fashion, brewing coffee, painting her toenails. Finally, as the night outside deepened, she hauled out her laptop and began doing work. She wanted to hammer out a proposal for a women's issues course at the community college, and she still a long way to go; furthermore, she was busy composing an editorial commenting on the latest in the string of murders that someone was committing.

Ah, yes. The murders. Her thoughts turned about the latest deaths—she had heard about them at work last week, and that was another nightmarish day. None of the clients knew any of the three latest victims, but some of them, mainly the former prostitutes, were still quite upset. Annabeth was stumped—she had no idea what was going on, but it was frightening, especially given her nighttime escapades. Not that there was anything she could do—she would continue going out, doing what she could to help, to hell with the risk. In all honesty, Annabeth had never really stopped to consider the dangers involved; she knew of the many potential fates that stalked those who ventured into the Narrows, but as far as she was concerned, she had no choice. She was a woman obsessed, she knew that, and powerless to do anything other than yield to the compulsion that drove her to the Narrows, night after night.

A muffled thump came from the other room, and Annabeth jumped a little. As she had told Janey, she had not yet grown to feel secure in her home again, a fact which she found endlessly frustrating. She still jumped at every little sound and sensed things when there was no one there—no doubt a side effect of being oblivious to the presence of an intruder in your home until it was too late. Reluctantly, Annabeth rose from her spot on the floor to investigate the source of the noise, but a moment later, her enormously fat cat Wurzel came ambling out of the bedroom. The muffled thump had been him jumping to the floor from his favorite perch at the foot of her bed.

She released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and sighed with relief. It was only then that she noticed her hands shaking, and cursed the Batman for bringing terror into her home.

Not long after, she went to bed, and curled up under the antique quilt that she had splurged on when she vacationed to the Appalachians, a couple of years back, after saving and scrimping as much as she could. Wurzel and Jed had fallen asleep with her, and the bed was a cozy cocoon of warmth that enveloped Annabeth. Even as the fear still pulsed through her, she slipped towards the land of sleep. If she had been aware that someone was watching her from beyond her window, the cozy scene would have dissolved into chaos and terror.

The Batman had come, not to terrorize, but to watch over her, as he had promised Alfred that he would. He sat on her fire escape for a long time, watching as she tossed and turned and eventually settled into a fitful sleep. But even then, he could sense her fear; Annabeth could hide almost anything while she was awake, but when she was asleep, it was a different story—she was vulnerable, unable to suppress the emotions that she kept guard over during all her waking hours. As he watched her, tormented by nightmares that twisted and contorted her body into a frightened fetal position, as he saw her awaken at one point, sweat and tears blending together on her face, he realized that Annabeth he had encountered as Bruce Wayne and the Batman were just a front, a character, just as he was, hiding something deeper. _This _was the true Annabeth, this woman who cried in her sleep and ran from god only knew what in her nightmares. She was becoming more complex by the day.

As he watched her torments, he was dismayed to realize he was more intrigued than ever.


	9. Chapter 9

Headline from the September 8th edition of the _Gotham Gazette:_

_**FIVE MORE DEAD IN VIOLENT KILLING SPREE**_

by Vicki Vale

_In a press conference held at 6 AM this morning, Gotham City Police Commissioner Jim Gordon announced the tragic murders of five more Gotham Citizens: Bernice McCullough, Haley Myers, Sharone Oberti, Jadyn Fairchild, and Alexia Zabek. The victims were all allegedly prostitutes, operating out of the area of Gotham City commonly referred to as "The Narrows." While Commissioner Gordon did not release many details, due to the ongoing investigation, he did confirm that the most recent victims were murdered in a manner consistent with that of the murders which were committed last Friday._

_The victims were discovered at 3:30 AM this morning, after an anonymous tip led police to the scene. The coroner estimates that the times of death were all within two hours of each other, likely occurring between midnight and 2 AM. If anyone in the region of The Narrows has observed suspicious activity, you are encouraged to notify Gotham City Police MCU with any information you may have._

_(Article continued on Page A6, accompanied by editiorial: "When Do We Provide Equal Protection for All Gotham's Citizens?")_

* * *

After several days of running on near-empty, Annabeth finally got some sleep. Not while she was huddled under the blankets, in bed, or curled up on her uncomfortable old couch, with her pets clustered around her. No, that would have been too easy. She finally fell asleep at 7:30, Monday morning, after she had come in to Safe Haven to get an early start. Her early start lasted all of half an hour, for soon after she checked her email, she simply konked out. At her desk.

At 9 AM, she was still there, slumped over, sound asleep, her cheek resting on her planner and fountain pen, a tiny line of drool starting to form at the corner of her mouth. Her breathing was deep, almost rattling, trying its best to turn into snores. But Annabeth was blissfully unaware of any of this; her sleep was as deep and impenetrable as the deepest ocean, and as peaceful, too.

Bruce almost hated to wake her. Almost. He had come in only a few minutes prior, armed with his Louis Vuitton briefcase and a thermos, and immediately headed up to her office…but when he peered through her open door, he saw her slumped form. Remembering her ill-fated attempts at sleep the night before, he wasn't too surprised that she was nodding off now.

"Annabeth." He said it quietly, and accompanied it with a gentle tap on her door. When that didn't penetrate her slumber, he sharpened his voice and spoke louder. _"Annabeth."_

She jerked awake then, nearly falling out of her chair. "Huh? What?" She shook her head, trying to regain her bearings. "Shit. What time is it?"

"Almost nine. I came up to see if you wanted this." He held aloft the thermos; within it was fresh, piping-hot coffee. "Maya said that French vanilla was your favorite."

"Oh my god. I love you." At that moment in time, she did. She would have crawled over nails to take that thermos from him, but he rendered the urge moot, bringing it to her. "This is truly wonderful. How'd you know I needed this?" She gave him a genuine, if somewhat bleary, smile.

He decided that telling her that he had watched her sleep—or rather, try to—the night before would not be welcome news, and diplomatically chose to go for an equally truthful point. "It's Monday. You're cranky on Mondays."

She paused in pouring the coffee and smiled ruefully. "I suppose I am. Very observant of you. But little did you know that the coffee will only serve to revive me into my normal state of bitchiness. At least when I'm sleepy, I'm too befuddled to think of anything mean to say." The coffee was fragrant and rejuvenating; simply inhaling the steam brought her an immense measure of comfort.

"Ah, but at least you're entertaining when you're mean. And cheap, too. It's boring listening to people faun over me, and how wonderful and witty and handsome I am. Why should I listen to them when I can have a daily dose of vitriol without having to offer to pay for its dinner?" Bruce settled down into the chair across from her, making himself comfortable and looking for all the world as though he was accustomed to chatting with her every morning.

Annabeth eyeballed him over the rim of her mug. "Do you even know how to spell vitriol? Or does Alfred just feed you a word of the day when you put on those ridiculous designer suits?"

_Which__ ones? _he was tempted to ask, but didn't. Instead, he just watched her sip at the coffee. "Long night? Too many dates in one weekend?"

The look she gave him was pitying. "I don't have the time to date." The coffee revived her enough to begin a search through a stack of papers on her desk. "Did you just come here to poke fun at my sleep-deprived state, or did you have a purpose for barging in here?"

He was unfazed. "I'm just saying, you're looking a little rough around the edges. You need more sleep…or maybe a spa day. I know this great spa resort, they have the best facial. It's a twenty-four carat gold peel-"

"Mr. Wayne." Annabeth had reverted to formality, a sure sign that whatever goodwill she had harbored towards him five minutes earlier was quickly running out. "Do I look like I would go for a gold facial peel? Do I look like I can afford it, or stomach it?"

"I guess not." He put on a sheepish expression and acted suitably rebuked. "Seriously, though. You look like you haven't slept in days."

Maybe it was the kindness he had shown in bringing her coffee, combined with her own weariness; for whatever reason, her defenses were down. "I haven't been sleeping," she told him. "Not much."

"Why not?"

Annabeth smiled, almost reluctantly. "I bet you don't have a problem sleeping, do you? Bet your head just hits that soft pillow of yours and you're out like a light?" She paused, a unhappy look creeping on to her face. "But we common folk, we've got problems, things that keep us up at night. And in my case…well. Let's just say that someone broke into my home recently, while I was there, and it scared the shit out of me. Reminded me how vulnerable everyone is in this damned city, and how we're not safe, even in the place where we should feel safest." Her voice drifted off for a moment, and her eyes went out of focus as she revisited the memories. "To dread going home…there's no hope or comfort for you." To her horror, tears began to sting her eyes. "And so when I go home, I can barely sleep. And when I do sleep, I have nightmares, night terrors."

Bruce knew about night terrors, and told her as much. "When I was a kid…after my parents were murdered, I had those night terrors. They were awful."

"They are, aren't they?" She was still dangerously close to crying, but he had given her something else to chew on. "Losing your parents like that, it must have been terrible. I wouldn't be surprised if you still got night terrors. That kind of trauma doesn't go away easily." For a moment, she thought of him as a frightened child, and felt a little badly about her previously snotty treatment of him. What happened to Bruce Wayne in his childhood was common legend in Gotham, but she didn't think about it much. The child she imagined Bruce Wayne to be had very little to do with the man before her now. But who knew? Maybe there was more of Thomas and Martha Wayne's child in that man than she had originally thought. "Anyway," she shrugged, trying to dispel some of the heavy atmosphere. "I'm not sleeping because I am fucking terrified, and I hate going home at night now."

Bruce was silent. When she looked at him, she couldn't quite make out his expression. If eyes were the windows to the soul, Bruce Wayne's soul was completely shuttered off. _Or he just might not have one, _Annabeth reminded herself. But every day that she worked with him, she doubted that more and more. Finally Bruce spoke, his words sincere, if completely inadequate. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "It's not your fault."

_Oh really? _Inwardly he cringed, but outwardly his expression remained the same. "Anyway, if you want, you can stay at Wayne Manor." He smiled suggestively. "I'm sure we can find a spare bed for you."

Annabeth snorted and rolled her eyes, and with that, the atmosphere was broken. "Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"Did you major in Assholology?"

He chuckled. "With a certification in Jerk Studies."

"Seriously," she waved her mug at him. "Why'd you bring me coffee? Why are you trying to suck up? I'm pretty low on the totem pole around here...I bet Donna would appreciate it more."

He didn't respond; he was busy fishing around in his briefcase. A moment later, he surfaced with what he was looking for: the newspaper. This morning's edition of the _Gotham Gazette, _which he passed to her. When he looked at her this time, the expression in his eyes was completely visible: sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

Annabeth was confused until she glanced down at the paper he offered her, and then his previous act of consideration made sense. The headline was big, bold, black, and declared danger and doom. Her heart sank. In a desperate attempt to avoid his sympathy and hide the she knew was evident in her face, she tried for levity. "You read the newspapers?"

"Just read the article!" he snapped. It was so out of character for his normal amiable personality that she was startled for a moment. But then she looked back down at the paper, and studied the text and the grainy pictures of the victims.

After a moment, "All of them were prostitutes," she whispered. She raised haunted eyes to Bruce. "It reminds me of Jack the Ripper…someone's targeting these women." She resumed reading the article. Each of the murders had taken place the previous night, in the Narrows…she hadn't been there to stop it. _But I __could have been a victim, too. _The knowledge of this possibility sent a wave a nausea crashing into her stomach. "Oh god—excuse me." She rose quickly, her hand over her mouth, and darted out of the office.

Bruce only hesitated for a second before he followed, hard on her heels.

Annabeth dashed into the bathroom at the end of the corridor, not bothering to lock the door. She made it just in time, collapsing in front of the toilet and voiding the meager contents of her stomach. Even after it felt as though there were nothing left to bring up, she remained there, her head draped over the toilet—and a good thing, too, for a moment later she wretched again. Occupied thusly, she didn't hear the door open behind her, didn't notice the approaching footsteps until Bruce Wayne was crouching beside her, kindness and concern in his voice. "I thought I might help induce vomiting," he offered with a crooked smile.

She returned his smile with a weak one of her own just before another wave of nausea hit her, and she lowered her head again. She felt one hand on her forehead as he smoothed back her hair, another hand pressing in between her shoulder blades as he steadied her and channeled a calming effect through her as the dry heaves wracked her body.

Finally the nausea passed, and she was able to struggle to her feet, Bruce assisting with a hand at her elbow. "Thank you," she told him. "That doesn't usually happen."

"I've got plenty of experience making women want to vomit," he assured her. "Need a backrub?"

Annabeth moved away from his touch quickly, her shield of aloofness sliding itself back into place before his eyes. "No. I'm fine." She smiled, trying to take the abruptness out of the words. "Really. I need to get back to work."

Bruce watched her as she exited the bathroom and rather shakily made her way back down to her office. He had found out about the murders at four that morning, shortly after he had left Annabeth's fire escape. All had occurred close together, while he was out on Annabeth's fire escape. That thought alone bothered him deeply. All of the bodies had been moved, left in the shadows of the alleys in the worst part of the Narrows. An anonymous caller, someone who wanted the bodies to be discovered, had reported them. The Batman had learned this when Gordon had called from the encrypted phone, summoninh him to the MCU. He had never seen his comrade so shaken, so frustrated. Even when the Joker had nearly brought Gotham to its knees, he has been more collected. Then he could take action; now he could only do so much—in part because there was so little evidence to go on, but also because there was little departmental support. People tended not to get too worked up over the deaths of prostitutes, even when the deaths happened in large quantities.

Which was why he had bribed a certain enterprising reporter—and her boss—to run the story on the front page, along with an incendiary editorial tucked further back. Time to stir up a little awareness, see if the public couldn't be encouraged to raise a little bit of an outcry. Vicki Vale was a reporter that loved to report on Bruce Wayne—the more salacious and derogatory, the better. She loved to write about him, and he willingly provided her plenty of grist for the gossip mill. It was an arrangement they had: a little bit of flirting on both sides, and they could agree on stories that could achieve both of their ends. He willingly gave her some fodder for her gossip columns, and every now and then she would run a piece, encouraged by Bruce Wayne, that actually served some worthy purpose. It was actually a good working relationship. And Vale had stepped up to the plate as usual, providing a front-page story that revealed all the murders, told in a way that would be sure to pluck at the heartstrings of the good citizens of Gotham.

Now he followed Annabeth back to her office, and watched as she sat back down at her desk. She looked more exhausted than ever. Bruce felt a tightening in his chest for a moment as he considered what could have happened last night, had she been down in the Narrows, instead of at home. She could have been one of those women, beaten beyond recognition. That realization stopped him cold.

"What can we do?" he blurted out.

Annabeth jumped; she had assumed that he had wandered off to flirt with one of the clients, or talk with Donna. "Do?" she repeated. "About what? Those murders?"

He nodded.

"Bruce…" Annabeth started to say, and then stopped. What to tell him? How to explain that some times, some days, there was nothing they _could_ do, or at least nothing more than they were already doing. Even her nocturnal visits to the Narrows couldn't do everything. She pitied him for a moment, pitied that he didn't yet understand that by and large, Safe Haven was treading water in a never-abating flood. As she struggled to find the words to explain this, she watched his face…and was disturbed to see a slightly maniacal gleam in his eyes. Right now he looked…well, he looked like how she did, before she went down to the Narrows. He wanted action. He wanted to do something, anything. Just don't let him do nothing.

In that moment, Annabeth truly began to accept that Bruce Wayne had become an ally, and wasn't just a passing benefactor. He was ready to fight.

They stared at each other from across the room, and an understanding flared between them. He watched her gaze soften, almost imperceptibly, and that alone did something to him that he wasn't sure he liked. Damn it, he liked her.

"Annabeth! Bruce!"

Donna's strident voice rang throughout the corridor as she came bustling through to Annabeth's office. "Oh good, you're both here—christ!" she exclaimed as she caught sight of Annabeth. "You look like hell, Annabeth!"

"Thanks, Boss Lady." Annabeth seemed unperturbed by Donna's assessment. "It's a new trend."

"Yeah, what's that? The 'hell in heels' look?" Donna was already losing interest in her protégé's personal appearance. "Just make sure you don't smell. Look, I wanted to talk with both of you. When do you have a minute?"

Bruce sidled up to her. "I'm always available." He winked at her, then turned to Annabeth. "Shall we join your lovely boss?"

"Actually, no, we can convene here." Donna wasn't the type who needed to manage her organization from behind the comfort of her own desk—Annabeth's would do just as well. She sat down, smoothing her pencil skirt as she did. "Do sit, Bruce, dear. Don't be shy."

"If you two are going to flirt your way through this meeting," Annabeth piped up, "do you mind if I tune you out? Threesomes aren't really my thing."

"Damn," Bruce muttered as he took the remaining seat. Both he and Annabeth turned expectantly to Donna. She looked right back at them, and smiled in satisfaction.

"This has been quite a happy marriage of resources, don't you think?" It was a rhetorical question, and she didn't waste time waiting for an answer. "Bruce, your presence here has been working wonders. Of course, we're grateful for every resource you have contributed, and we look forward to more in the future." Her smile grew wider, and her carefully-maintained pearly whites gleamed in a manner reminiscent of the Cheshire cat. "But your presence here is worth even more than your money."

"I don't hear that a lot," Bruce admitted.

"I bet you don't." Donna eyed him for a moment, assessing him before she spoke again. "You're quite the enigma, Bruce. Not nearly as dumb as I originally assumed. But you bring a lot of ideas, a lot of vision to Safe Haven. And you have a way with the clients—Marjane in particular is absolutely charmed by you."

"Well," Bruce pointed out reasonably, "No one else understands what she's saying."

"True. But she's learning a smattering of English, and even when you talk, she still likes you. You're doing something right."

Annabeth glanced at her watch. "Donna? Speed it along, please?"

"Yes, yes." Donna rolled her eyes. "I take it you both heard about the most recent murders?"

This question was not rhetorical. Both of them nodded, and Annabeth spoke cautiously. "Bruce was wondering if there's anything we can do."

Donna actually laughed aloud at this. "You've been spending too much time here, Bruce. You're turning into an idealist. Actually," she became serious, "There is something that we can do. A few things, actually. But they're only an indirect way to help."

"Better than nothing. What is it?" Bruce was eager to hear Donna's ideas, but Annabeth was a little more hesitant—god only knew what Donna would pull out of her hat.

Donna looked from one to the other, relishing their attention, before she spoke. "Take back the night."

"Huh?" Bruce was utterly clueless, but Annabeth—

"Yes!" A hopeful smile lit up Annabeth's face, transforming her features and causing Bruce to do a double-take. "Donna, that's brilliant!"

"Wait…I'm confused. What do you mean, 'take back the night'?" Bruce looked from one woman to the other.

It was Annabeth who answered his question. Annabeth, who was practically bouncing out of her seat with glee. "Take back the night, Bruce. It's a rally, a march, this huge thing that a lot of college towns do. People come from all over and gather together and rally and march as a way to bring attention to violence against women, and to protest it. It's called 'Take Back the Night', so that we—women—can make it so that it's safe for us to go out in the world, without fear." She turned back to Donna. "Do you think we can do it?"

Donna looked at Bruce, her lovely eyes glowing with heavy meaning. "I think it's time we try."

"Why haven't you organized this thing before? What's special now?" Bruce was having a hard time understanding what made _now_ so important.

"We've tried, in the past, but we need municipal and political support, and Gotham bureaucracy was never willing to cooperate. It usually only takes place in college towns. For Gotham to do it—well, it would be _unprecedented. _The amount of red tape alone makes it a nightmare—requesting streets to be closed for the rally, getting the necessary permits, bagging the assistance of the Gotham PD. But there's also the need for an aggressive advertising campaign, finding a keynote speaker…if we were to do it, we'd have to do it right. Funding is an issue, too, of course." Donna stared at Bruce, and made sure that the penny dropped.

"Ah." Bruce smiled. "And now is the right time because…"

"Because we have a very formidable partner to assist us in this." Donna's eyes were alight with the possibilities. "What do you say, Bruce? Is the Prince of Gotham interested in making history? You'll be a champion of women's issues, known all over the country!"

"Hmmm. I can't imagine why that wouldn't impress every man at the country club," Bruce chuckled.

Annabeth spoke up. "Bruce, this is an incredible opportunity, not only to bring more support in, but to raise awareness. How many women have been murdered in the past month? Raped? Beaten? Sold into the black market? Stalked? And who in this goddamned city cares? Who reports these crimes? Who conducts investigations? How many suspects are caught, prosecuted, punished? Hardly any of them. If we can make people stop and think about it—well, we need to." Her eyes had that fanatical blaze in them, and Bruce found himself losing grasp of his reason as he watched her. _Oh, this was bad._

"It's a good idea!" he agreed, more to distract himself from the unruly turn his thoughts had taken. "Really, I'm on board. And it's a great way for me to meet women, right?"

The only answer was a muffled thump as Annabeth began to knock her head against the desk.

Donna watched her for a moment, a smile playing on her lips, then turned her attention back to Bruce. "Right. Here's what needs to be done…"

It was almost lunch time by the time the three of them had hammered out a firm strategy. Each of them had their jobs, but Bruce's was the first that would have to be executed, and everything depended on him. He didn't seem too perturbed by it; it may have been the most crucial part of their plan, but it certainly wasn't anything that he hadn't done before. Annabeth allowed him to use the phone on his desk as he placed the first of many phone calls.

"Yes, I'd like to speak with Commissioner Gordon…oh, no, he's not available? Fiddlesticks. Not even for Bruce Wayne?" He grinned at Donna and Annabeth as he unabashedly wielded the influence of the Wayne family name. "Yes. I'll hold." A moment later, "Commissioner Gordon! You know who this is, yes? No…no…call me Bruce."

Annabeth and Donna shamelessly eavesdropped as Bruce conducted his conversation. Annabeth was confused as she listened to him talk; his voice had changed, become more…jocular. More lighthearted. The way he had sounded when he had first come to Safe Haven—and come to think of it, he hadn't sounded like that in a while. He was usually much more serious now…or at least most of the time. But now, as they listened to him work his way around Commissioner Gordon, Annabeth marveled at the personality change.

"I was wondering, Commissioner, if you might be interested in this little idea I have—what?" He listened for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips. "No, it doesn't involve emus. Or major fires. Nothing like that…how about a little fundraiser? Something to help out the GCPD? I know you're always strapped for funds. And what better way to prevent crime?" He paused again. "No, I didn't have a date with Mother Teresa last night. But I do have the advice of two very fine women that I'm sure you know…"

The call went on for a while, but finally Bruce hung up the phone and smiled at Annabeth and Donna. "It's done. A fundraiser, to be held in a few weeks—Gordon's going to get back with me on a few things. You really think this is going to work?"

"Oh yes," Donna assured him. "Gordon's no fool. I've worked with him plenty of times, and I can tell a guilty conscience when I see it. He'd like to do more about violence against women…you'll just have to pull out that Wayne charm of yours."

"That usually only works on the females," Bruce pointed out, and glanced at Annabeth, who was studiously ignoring him. "And even then, not always."

"Time to branch out a little then, eh?" Donna's chuckle bordered on the mischevious, and she actually rubbed her hands together. "Well done! Once we get the fundraiser going, we can secure the GCPD's support. And then, things should get _a lot _easier."

Not long after, Annabeth hurriedly gathered her things—she had scheduled a lunch meeting with April, the wife of the President of Gotham University. Bruce had informed Annabeth that April essentially called the shots in that romantic partnership, and that she was a useful ally. So Annabeth and April had played phone tag since their meeting at Bruce's party, and there was no way in hell she'd miss this lunch date, especially considering the support they would need from the University. She sped out of the building as quickly as she could, completely unaware that Bruce watched her go, a wistful expression on his face.

"Mister Bruce! _Aziz!"_

He turned to see a small female rushing towards him: Marjane, the Persian girl he had befriended on the first day he had come to Safe Haven. In the almost-two weeks she had been living there, she had thrived: the swelling on her face had almost disappeared, and her arm was healing nicely. Bruce had made sure to spend time with her each time he visited Safe Haven; the result was that she had grown to adore him, and had picked up a little English, as well. As well, Donna had arranged for a language tutor to come in a couple of days a week, and resultantly, Marjane was quickly grasping the language of her new country. Bruce had grown quite protective of her.

Now she beamed up at him. "You stay for _nahar? _How you say…lunch? I cook!"

Maya appeared at his elbow and began to steer him towards the elevator. "You'll want to stay for _nahar_," she told him. "Marjane's an incredible chef. Come with us to the dining room."

"We eat _ghormeh sabzi _today," Marjane informed him, and hurried off.

"What's gor-may sob-zee?" Maya muttered to him as they watched Marjane's departing back.

"It's a stew…a green stew." Bruce chuckled as apprehension crossed Maya's normally untroubled face. "Don't worry! It's very good!" He nodded in the direction that Marjane had gone. "How's she doing?"

Maya tucked a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear. "She's doing reasonably well…she misses her parents. We advised her not to contact them, since they'd probably tell her husband where she is. And that's hard for her…she's a sweet girl. Still a kid, and she needs parents. Not a husband who rapes her and beats her for not preventing a pregnancy."

"What's going to happen to her?"

At last, a subject with a satisfactory conclusion. "Donna's located a family in Metropolis, a Persian family, who are willing to act as a surrogate family. They own a restaurant, so she'll be able to help them with that all she wants, when she's not in school." Maya clearly regarded this as a good step forward for Marjane. "She's going to leave in a week or two. Donna's pulling a few strings with Immigration, so she'll be legal, too."

"What about…the other thing?"

"Other thing?" Maya repeated blankly. "Oh. _That _other thing." She sighed, clearly not happy. "Marjane says she wants to keep the baby."

Bruce was shocked. "She's only sixteen!"

"I know, I know. But having the right to choose doesn't automatically mean you're going to get an abortion. It means you have the freedom to decide what you want. And some women want to to carry to term." She smiled grimly. "But even then…the right to choose is a wonderful thing."

Up ahead, they heard Marjane's happy, excited voice as she coaxed other clients into the dining room. Within a few minutes, close to fifteen people were clustered around the dining table, warily gazing at the stew Marjane set before them.

One toddler burst into tears.

"Well." Maya was struggling to be diplomatic. "It _is _a lovely shade of green."

Bruce was already spooning an enormous portion onto his plate, along with a generous helping of _tadiq, _a traditional rice dish. "I promise you, it's delicious."

Where the Prince of Gotham went, others were sure to follow, and soon enough, everyone was digging into the stew and rice, exclaiming over the fragrance and the subtle flavors. Marjane simply sat back and watched, a smug smile playing over her lips.

As soon as the initial rush of eating had passed, conversation arose and immediately turned towards various issues; mainly, men. Safe Haven, Bruce was coming to find out, was little more than a sorority house for disadvantaged women, and there was certainly enough gossip and talking to rival a sorority. Crowded into a relatively small building the way they were, everyone couldn't help knowing what was going on with everyone else, and they all had an opinion.

On Donna:

"She's a man-eater," was Johnanna's admiring assessment. "She's got a new one every month."

"Donna's earned it!" Maggie protested. "She put up with enough crap, let her have her fun." The rest of the clients clustered around the table nodded fervently, all in agreement, even Marjane, who was slightly in awe of the polished, poised director of Safe Haven, and who probably didn't understand exactly what a "man-eater" was.

On Maya:

"When are you getting married to that boyfriend of yours?" Brianna asked her as she looked up from her son Luke, who was stubbornly refusing to eat the stew. "Come on, baby. When your sister gets home from school, don't you want to show her how brave you are?"

"Maya, if you don't marry that man, I'll take him off your hands for you," Johanna offered. "He's got _huge _hands."

This elicited a few ribald laughs and comments from the other women. Brianna covered Luke's ears.

Maya paused in her gusto consumption of Marjane's fast-disappearing meal. "The wedding's next spring. March."

"Unless Johanna gets a hold of him first," Donna interjected as she hurried into the room, amid hoots and catcalls directed towards Maya and her self-appointed rival. "Did you leave me any food? Oooh, good." She reached for the bowl that Marjane passed her and settled down next to Brianna. "What are we talking about?"

"Your man-harem," Maya stage-whispered, provoking a few more laughs.

"What about Annabeth?" Bruce asked. "She have a man-harem too?"

He wasn't expecting the burst of laughter that followed his question, but perhaps he should have. When Donna finally caught her breath, she managed to ask, "Are we working with the same Annabeth? Mean as hell and has to be restrained from castrating most men on principle?"

Maya wiped away the tears of mirth that had gathered at the edge of her eyes. "Do you remember that repairman that came in here one day and tried to flirt with her?"

Johanna had been there long enough to remember. "She made him cry a little, I think." She paused. "Or was that the code inspector?"

Shaking her head, Maya explained to Bruce, "Annabeth's a little…emotionally unavailable. The only person she dates is...well, all of us. She's devoted to her work."

"Oh." Bruce looked disappointed. "Why?"

The clients gazed at each other in confusion; to most of them, she was simply Annabeth, their advocate and protector. They had too many problems of their own to worry about Annabeth and her lack of romance. Donna and Maya, however, exchanged a heavy, meaningful look, one that was not lost on Bruce.

"Some people just have a purpose, a calling," Donna explained to Bruce. "And that's all that matters." Her expression clearly indicated that she wasn't happy with Annabeth's lifestyle choices, but Donna knew enough to stand out of her way. "Anything else would be an inconvenience to her."

"That's got to be pretty lonely ," Bruce mused. Christ knew he had enough firsthand experience to be an expert in that field.

Maya spoke up in defense of Annabeth. "I don't think Annabeth has the time to be lonely. She's either here or at the Y or the hospital or the Narrows-"

"Maya!" Donna exclaimed.

"What? It's the worst-kept secret in the damned city." Maya shrugged. "She's crazy for going down there night after night. She's lucky she hasn't gotten hurt yet."

"The Narrows?" Bruce repeated. "Isn't that the really dangerous place she was telling me about?"

"Yup." Maya was terse on this subject; it was apparent that she didn't think much of her colleague's night life. "It's a cesspool-"

"It's where she found me," Gillian interrupted. Bruce remembered her as the girl whose uncle had traded her for drugs. "Annabeth was down in the Narrows one night, heard one of my uncle's friends talking about me in one of the bars, and she tracked me down. I owe her everything."

Glancing around the table, Bruce could see that Gillian wasn't the only one who felt like that.

"What does she do down there?" he asked. Batman might know already, but Bruce Wayne had to play dumb.

"She looks out for people to help. Night after night, she walks those godforsaken streets and tries to bring women in here. She goes looking for trouble." Donna's voiced revealed the grudging pride she felt.

"Wow." Bruce put on the appearance of struggling to comprehend the sheer lunacy. "That's...intense."

Shortly thereafter, the conversation turned to more salacious subjects, but Bruce remained quiet and contemplative. Throughout the remainder of the meal, Donna watched him, her expression thoughtful, her eyes seeing what few others in the room had noticed.

Bruce Wayne was falling in love with the hellion of Safe Haven.

_God help the poor son of a bitch._


	10. Chapter 10

Jones le Blanc loved his life.

When he stopped to think about it—which, admittedly,wasn't often—he truly pitied the poor shits, the peasants who wasted their lives away day in and day out, busting their asses to earn a living. Stuck in jobs they hated, that bored them stiff, coming home to sniveling families that bled them dry, marching ever onward towards deaths as unremarkable as their lives, so few knowing who they were, what they could do, what they could have been. Every time he sat in a restaurant in Gotham and watched them hurrying along the sidewalk, their shoulders hunched over in defeat, their expressions harassed as they contemplated their fruitless lives, Jones le Blanc pitied them. But he reveled in his superiority, too: he had the balls, the vision, the sheer desire and willpower to evade that pointless kind of life. And he had succeeded, hadn't he? So that made him better than them, the poor bastards.

Even before Falcone's mob was taken down, even before Maroni and his men fell to the Batman, Jones le Blanc had power. Sure, his Arrows mob hadn't been nearly as powerful as Falcone and his family, but they had nonetheless made a modest name for themselves. They had their fingers in plenty of pies, they had wealth, they had pull, they had friends in high places. So when Falcone and Maroni were brought down, Jones found himself in the not unenviable position of suddenly being the most powerful mob boss in Gotham.

No indeed, he wasn't complaining. Life was pretty good. All sorts had been flocking to him and his Archers: politicians and public servants and union officials looking for a symbiotic relationship; smugglers and swindlers and pornographers and thugs and counterfeiters offering their talents and services; pimps and whores seeking his protection. He welcomed them all, tried to do business with each of them personally. He was egalitarian and democratic like that.

It was one of the whores that was presently demanding his notice, although he wasn't the most attentive person in the room. His oldest friend and Under boss, Michael Donzetti, was practically drooling and hanging on to her every word.. Since he appeared to have that covered, le Blanc didn't pay too much attention to her. He was more preoccupied with their surroundings: the cavernous walls, the stale smell, the perpetually dim lighting, the lack of attractive furniture. That was one of the things that he didn't much care for, the shabby digs. He understood that smart Bosses keep a low profile, don't provoke more attention than was absolutely necessary, but really, did they actually have to operate out of a warehouse in the Narrows? Especially the same one that they had been operating out of since they began this outfit! The Arrows had gotten a promotion, so shouldn't they have a nicer office? Something in the Financial District, maybe, or even better, near City Hall. Something with a view, some natural light. It was time to move the Arrows up in the world. Let their surroundings reflect their position.

Donzetti nudged him, and he reluctantly dragged his thoughts to the present and began to pay attention to what the whore was saying.

"We're terrified." She looked from one man to the other. "Some of us work independently, and even they're getting murdered. Who the hell is this? What's going to happen to us? We're losing money, every night. That psycho's hitting every level. Call girls, pimps, street walkers, every class-he's hitting us all. Who's next?"

Since Donzetti was too busy leering at her, le Blanc answered. "Who knows...Miss...?"

"Whitney. Trinity Whitney." She didn't look happy. "I told that to your goons when I first came in here. Didn't they tell you anything?"

A couple of Archers standing close by turned their attention towards this exchange, and le Blanc sat up a little straighter. It wasn't every day people came in there looking for favors from the Arrows, and then got snippy with them. It was downright dumb. Or clever—calculated to provoke, to make her stand out above the others who had been flocking to the Arrows.

Judging by how closely Donzetti was observing her, le Blanc guessed that Miss Trinity Whitney knew exactly what she was doing.

"Quite right, Miss Whitney. You'll forgive us; we've had quite a few of your colleagues coming to us lately. I'm sure you understand."

She understood, alright. "We need protection out there. That freak's been all over the place, killing all sorts of women. We're scared." Admitting this wasn't easy, anyone in the headquarters could see that. They could also see that she was a fine specimen of a call girl-a tall woman, slender, with flaxen blonde hair and brilliant green eyes and a perfect tan; a brilliant addition to the Arrows' fast-growing fleet of women, and in possession of a badly-needed element of class. Donzetti was practically infatuated.

Jones smiled understandingly. "Of course. You deserve to be safe...and we can provide protection." He paused, and then added, "but there's a necessary audition...I'm sure you'll understand."

Clearly, she had been expecting this. And like the whore she was, she seemed to eagerly anticipate it. "What would you like?" Her voice became coy, teasing.

It was Donzetti who answered. "Get down on your knees. In front of me."

What happened then was of little relevance, other than the fact that Trinity did her job well, working her mouth and her hands simultaneously, applying just the right pressure, the steady speed, a few surprising strokes of the tongue, some well-placed fingers. It was clear to Donzetti that she was truly an expert, and an enthusiastic one at that. Even though Donzetti was enjoying himself immensely, however, he was quite capable of multi-tasking. He turned to le Blanc. "Any word from our Russian associate?"

Ah, a subject that pleased le Blanc immensely. "Yes, I spoke with him earlier. Things are coming along nicely on his end-he's acquiring some of the goods as we speak."

"When does he think we'll go live?"

"Probably the beginning of next year. It'll take us that long to get the property over here, and take care of the competition..." le Blanc slid his eyes towards the kneeling figure of Trinity before he continued on. "We still have to secure some financial backing on our end, anyway." He grinned. "All in good time, my friend. No immediate rush. We've been doing just fine up until now, this is just another little business-"

"Not so little," Donzetti reminded him. "This is pretty damned big." Any other reasonable thoughts he might have been about to voice were suddenly lost to him as Trinity hit a particularly sensitive nerve with just the right pace, and he let out a sudden, guttural groan of release. As he sat there, panting slightly, Trinity leaned in closer to him, her blonde hair swinging forward, her eyes staring up at him longingly. "Did you like that?"

Quite clearly, Donzetti _had _iked that. He liked her pretty little face, and her pretty little personality. He had access to many women, but it took someone special to capture his attention for more than the requisite fifteen minutes to half an hour.

Jones spoke again. "I'd say you passed. Welcome to our family. You're one of us, and we'll protect you."

Out of the shadows, a tall figure emerged. Jones continued talking. "Of course, we require a very reasonable cut of your fees—but given your obvious appeals, I doubt it'll cost you much. You're under our protection now, and no one's going to fuck with you. I encourage you to tell all of your colleagues the same thing, and bring them to us." He turned to the tall figure. "Now, I think you should meet the person you'll be working with. Trinity, this is Boy-o. Boy-o, meet Trinity."

As Jones watched, Boy-o took Trinity's arm and gently led her away from them. Beside him, Donzetti fished out a couple of Cuban cigars and passed Jones one of them. They lit up and puffed away companionably for a few moments, neither saying anything. When life was this good, really, what was there left to say?

Jones loved his life.

* * *

Trinity Whitney _had_ loved her life.

She had loved it very much, and had been fiercely proud of it. She had made it for herself, built it up little by little, established a good reputation for herself. She had made for herself a career based on charm, talent, and above all, discretion. Certainly, being a high-class call girl was not something most wrote home about, but then again, her mother wasn't complaining. Trinity made good money, amazingly good money, and a fair chunk of it went home to her mother in West Virginia. She made regular payments on her mortgage, she had money saved up in the bank, she even had a Plan B waiting for the day when she became too old for her current line of work. And that day would come, that much she knew.

A few months back, one of her colleagues asked her, in passing, how she had ended up in Gotham City. Trinity hadn't been able to explain it very well—of course, that could have had something to do with how many martinis she had consumed—but what it came down to was that she had wanted a city where she could remake herself. Charleston, West Virginia had been far too small, too conservative, too stifling for Trinity. She knew she wanted more, she wanted lights and life and glamor and beauty and space, enough room for her to operate without the eyes of everyone watching, judging. She chose Gotham because it was the closest, and it was less expensive than Boston or New York. She hadn't had noble goals; she didn't intend to get an overpriced college education, she didn't care to change the world, and she didn't have any delusions of breaking into the modeling scene in any major sort of way. But she did have ambitions.

All those years of cultivating charm and manners and internalizing rules of etiquette; all of the care she had always invested in her personal appearance; all of her other...studies...with willing pupils (usually handsome young businessmen, and a few older ones, too), all of it had paid off. She had come into Gotham determined to make a living and enjoy herself, and against all odds, she had done exactly that, and with considerable success. In the beginning, she did a few _cinematic masterpieces of sensuality and eroticism _(she had introduced those euphemisms) to make ends meet, but that was before she met the right kind of man—the kind who knew other men, who was willing to give referrals, who was capable and happy to pay money for the pleasure of her company. And that was how her career had started.

Trinity didn't try to fool herself. She could call herself whatever she wanted—"courtesan" or "escort" or or "companion", it didn't really matter...to many, she was a whore, and an overpriced one at that. Not that it bothered her. Trinity _liked _what she did. In her own way, she worked hard. She met interesting people, had traveled to wonderful places, had experienced some truly delightful social events and equally delightful company. She enjoyed sex, made sure her clients did too, and generally, her clients respected her. Sometimes, she secretly entertained the fancy that she was a Westernized, modern-day geisha.

Geisha. Right.

Not after today.

For as long as she lived, she would never forget what had transpired this day. Even now, as the sun set over Gotham, as the September twilight settled over the city landscape, as she sat on her balcony and fondled her highball glass, she tried to put the whole experience from her mind...and failed miserably. For the first time, Trinity began to relate to her less-fortunate counterparts, the women of the streets. Was this how they felt? This insignificant? This degraded? This objectified?

She rattled the ice in her glass, and reflected back upon the whole interaction. Even worse than Jones' oily condescension, worse than the feel of Donzetti's indifference to her as anything other than a wet and accommodating orifice, worse than the conversation that they held as if she were less than human, not even present...even worse than all of that, she had to admit, was the 40 percent of her fees that she would have to pay them. "Very reasonable", those scumbags had told her. "It's for your protection. You don't have to tell us who your clients are, but you'll have to let us know when and where your appointments are. That way, we can keep an eye out for you. We have associates everywhere who can take care of you."

The implication being, of course, "Shortchange us, cross us, and we'll know. And you'll be sorry."

She could still taste Donzetti. He was vile. There was no respect from him, no interest in her as a human being. She hated him for that; she hated all of them for robbing her blind with that _40 fucking percent, _and above all else, she hated all of them for making her regret, for the first time in her life, her career choice.

40 percent. That was why she had decided, when she first started six years ago, to operate independently, without a pimp or a manager. She wanted to keep every cent that she earned. If she started paying out now, things would change. She'd have to book more appointments, just to make up the difference. She'd have to relinquish some of her daytime hours, which up until now had been free for her gym workouts, her leisure reading, her various pointless hobbies and activities. She'd have to relinquish some of her luxuries-less designer clothing, fewer taxi rides, no more classes at the community college. Sending less money home to her mother wasn't an option, so she'd have to choose to save less money for herself.

No, if she had to be honest, it was that 40 percent that hurt the most.

There was something else that was bothering her, though. That man that had explained the "protection fee"-Boy-o, they said his name was. He was a disconcerting fellow, a very disturbing man to talk to. He had the most angelic face, just like a young boy or a cherub, and initially, that put Trinity at ease. Her ease was as badly assumed as it was short-lived, however; as he began to speak, his low, gentle voice somehow terrified Trinity. There was a knife under that voice, just below the surface, ready to slip through and cut without warning. Boy-o was an odd one-he hadn't expected any "auditions" the way Donzetti had, but he certainly enjoyed physical contact with her, mainly reaching over every now and then to stroke her silky hair; every now and then placing a hand on her shoulder or arm in a proprietary manner that somehow was far worse than anything Donzetti had expected or done. Boy-o and his associates would be who Trinity answered to, and that scared the bejesus out of her.

Enough. She headed back inside, to the bright lights and warmth of her condo. Inside, she would wrap herself in a satin robe, fix a simple salad, listen to some jazz, drink some wine. It was a rare night in for her—soon, they would become even more elusive—and she wanted to enjoy it while she could. She had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of planning, a lot of information-gathering. She didn't like this situation one damned bit, and the moment she had knelt and took Donzetti in her mouth, she knew that it was unacceptable. She would put up with for the present, but not for long. Trinity was no victim, and she never had been. When she didn't like things, she changed them. And she was going to do her damnedest to change them for her and all of her colleagues.

She just had to figure out how.

Headline from the _Gotham Gazette, _Friday, September 12 2008:

**Murder Rates Down; Domestic Violence Rates Skyrocket**

_In the first officially-released research since the advent of Gotham's hooded vigilante, ;law enforcement authorities have revealed that murder rates in Gotham City for the year of 2007 decreased by 35 percent, to 1,735-a dramatic indication that someone, somewhere is doing something right. This is a marked decrease from the statistics for the year of 2006, in which murders increased 47 percent to 2,669, from the previous year of 2005's 1816 murders._

_In the light of the recent rash of murders that have taken place among the employees of Gotham's thriving sex industry, however, it might be considered too soon to declare a downward trend._

_However, an almost-equally promising statistic indicates that that reported petty thefts in 2007 decreased 19 percent to 34,724 from the 2006 statistic of 42,869._

_When asked for comments, newly-appointed Police Commissioner Gordon professed the opinion that the promising trends owe much to the increased efforts of Gotham's Police Force to purge their own of the more unethical elements which have, in recent years, hampered justice. "Our fine police are doing everything in their power to purge our force of those who have followed careers of corruption, and this means more honest and decent cops, cracking down on more crime. We intend to forge our City's police force into an honorable team of dedicated and compassionate professionals who are committed to redeeming our City, and ensuring that citizens can lead their lives in relative security."_

_When asked if the notorious "Batman" has influenced the decrease in crime, Commissioner Gordon could only offer this: "While the Batman has taken on a very dangerous—and misguidedly noble—task in assisting and protecting Gotham, we can assure all Gotham citizens that is our Police force who provide the first line of defense, and that vigilante mavericks cannot provide the long-term stabilizing influence that our city needs."_

_While these major crime statistics do indicate a trend towards stability and safety, however, not all of Gotham's citizens are benefitting. The Bureau for Criminal Justice and Victim's Advocacy also released statistics this week, which analyzes on reported incidents of domestic violence and rape for the year immediately past. The numbers are bleak: 2007 rapes statistics are up 11 percent from the previous year of 2006, from 5421 to 6,017, and reported incidents of domestic violence in 2007 are up to 428,734, a 27 percent increase over 2006's statistic of 337,586._

_Commissioner Gordon expressed concern over these statistics, and vowed to dedicate more of the police force to prevention and intervention, but warned that matters could grow worse before they improved: "Unfortunately, incidents of domestic violence tends to spike during years in which the economy experiences a downturn, and this is to be expected, given the current job market, credit crisis, and inflation rates. While Gotham's finest will do everything in their power to combat this disease, it remains ultimately in the hands of our citizens to intervene and report crimes or suspected behaviors that put individuals and families at risk."_

* * *

Donna and Annabeth looked at each other, the newspaper lying between them on Donna's desk.

"It's not enough." Annabeth was defeated. "It won't ever be enough." She closed her eyes, imagining all of them, their fear, their hopelessness.

Her mentor regarded her kindly. "Maybe not," Donna conceded. "Maybe it will never be enough, but it definitely won't be enough if we just quit altogether. Then the city's down another halfway house, and we're just another bunch of quitters. And if you're a quitter, you're a loser."

"Donna...we had two more families come in last night. Two families in one night _alone." _Annabeth leaned forward. "It's happening again. We're starting to run out of room. We're down to two bedrooms left."

"Marjane's leaving soon," Donna reminded her. "And maybe some of the others. But you need to focus. Focus on the big stuff. Let Maya work out the details about housing and meals...seriously, if it weren't for her, this place would collapse around us. You worry about bringing more women and children in here. You worry about the funding. You let Maya worry about the details."

"Then what do you worry about?" Annabeth wanted to know.

"You."

"That's a waste of time," Annabeth scoffed, but she had started to get the uncomfortable look she always got when someone began fussing over her. "Seriously. I'm fine."

Donna arched a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "Oh? How much sleep did you get last night?"

"That's besides the point. Have you taken a look at the utility bills for last month?"

"How often do you eat a good, solid meal?"

"And really—I think you should take a look at some of the reports we're getting from some of the other shelters in the city. Their utilities are up, too. I bet the City thinks they can put the squeeze on us, somehow." Annabeth was determined to change the subject, but she had learned a fair amount of her stubbornness from Donna, and Donna would not be deterred.

"And when was the last time you went on a date? Kissed a man? Had sex?"

"The grocery bills were pretty high, too. We should see about purchasing more in bulk...sex?" Annabeth glanced up, her determination to ignore her boss temporarily overruled.

Donna smirked. "I knew that would grab your attention. Seriously, Annabeth, when was the last time you enjoyed the company of a pleasant male in your bed?"

"A _pleasant _male? That would be never. Seriously, Donna, we're not having this conversation." Annabeth tapped the newspaper. "Over four hundred-thousand reported incidentsof domestic violence last year-and that's just the _reported _cases. And what about the child abuse? And the rapes? No." She shook her head vehemently. "When would I have the time to take someone into my bed? I'm barely there, myself."

"You'd be there more if you'd stop spending your nights in the Narrows." Donna sharpened her voice. "Annabeth, it's _dangerous. _It's a miracle nothing too horrible has happened to you there. When's it going to be enough? What happened to you, Annabeth—it's done. You can't change it, you can't stop it. When will you stop trying to re-write history? "

Annabeth's eyes gleamed with the zeal of a woman demented, hounded by something visible only to herself. "Never."

They sat in silent for a few moments, each woman with her own thoughts. When Donna spoke again, it was with amused resignation. "I have the perfect man for you. I think you'd get along great."

Annabeth smirked. "Can I stick him in my pocket? Is he mute?"

"Almost." Donna grinned then, unable to stay exasperated with her protégé. "He's as busy as you are. Hard-to-get, too, I'd bet. I think you and the Batman would be perfect for each other."

"You want me to date a costumed nutjob who is currently wanted for the murders of several Gotham citizens?" Annabeth's voice hiked up in disbelief. "And they think I'm the crazy one."


	11. Chapter 11

An Editorial From the Sunday, September 14, 2008 edition of the Gotham Gazette, Society Column, Section B2,

_**The Fur Will Fly: Bruce Wayne's Latest Gaffe**_

_The scene was perfect: the elegant VIP room of the Top of Gotham Restaurant, the locale for the 2008 Annual Fundraiser of the Gotham City Humane Society. The crowds were just as elegant, with many of the city's top politicians, celebrities, and businessmen and -women dressed in haute couture and eager to advocate for millions of exploited, abused, and neglected animals. These were good people turning out for a good cause._

_One guest in particular stood out above the rest: the Prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne, along with his companion for the evening, actress Willa Sorrentino. While the wayward billionaire-turned-misguided-philanthropist's presence was not in itself remarkable, Ms. Sorrentiono's taste in accessories was: she sported a vintage Donald Brooks seal fur coat, gifted to her by her doting date._

_"Brucie knew it would be a chilly evening," Sorrentino smiled when questioned on the appropriateness of her attire. "I'm sure no one would mind me snuggled into the coat of an animal killed way before we knew killing seals was wrong."_

_When faced with such an outrageous faux-paus, one must question not only the common sense of Gotham's Prince, but his taste in women as well. Perhaps Mr. Wayne should turn his attention from philanthropy and focus on a concern closer to his own heart: selecting more suitable company, and lbringing honor to Gotham City, rather than disgracing us with his antics._

* * *

"Bruce."

He glanced up from the novel he had been reading, a trashy bodice-ripper that he had found lying around the library at Safe Haven. He had been whiling away the time before Marjane arrived for her English lesson, and the lurid cover had caught his eye. He had absently picked it up, initially ignorant of its contents, and began to read—and an hour later, disturbed fascination was still compelling him to turn page after page. Women actually _r__ead _stuff like this?

Although, who was he to judge a person's extracurricular activities?

"Bruce."

Annabeth was standing in the doorway, actually smiling at him. Smiling at him, without an obvious reason.

"I'm so sorry," she told him as she walked in and over to him. She knelt down by his seat, looking up into his eyes. She actually placed a gentle hand on his arm."I'm so sorry."

Her sympathy was confusing, but he wasn't going to complain. Anything other than her habitual irritation, scorn, and ire was a rather pleasant change. "You're sorry?" he repeated. "Sorry for what?"

"I've been so mean to you, all this time." She looked stricken. "I've been picking on you, making fun of you...how could I know you couldn't help how you are?"

"How I am?" Now he was really confused.

"I mean, how awful! I had no idea someone dropped you on your head as a baby! Was it Alfred? Was he tippling a little too much sherry one night?"

She stood up abruptly, and the motion enabled him to see the Sunday newspaper she clutched in her hand. Whoops.

"Whoops?"

"A seal fur coat, Bruce? Really? _Really?"_

He couldn't tell if she was angry or amused. Knowing Annabeth, though, it was likely the former.

"I'm sorry?" He hadn't meant for it to come out with such timidity, but she was standing over him, her arms crossed over her chest, her brown eyes shooting him daggers. "I didn't realize. I wasn't thinking." He _had _been thinking, actually-it was the latest prank Alfred had cooked up in their endless pursuit to preserve his image as Bruce Wayne, Champion Idiot. He had done it deliberately, and he could not, would not explain that to her. But he decided to clue Annabeth into his saving grace.

"I've got a secret," he told her. He crooked his finger, beckoned her close to him. Reluctantly, she obeyed, leaned in, heard his amused whisper:

_"It was a fake."_

Annabeth stepped back, quickly. She hadn't seen _that _coming. His sense of humor was getting more twisted by the day. That disturbed her, but what disturbed her more was that she found herself appreciating it.

Bruce was trying his best to look sheepish. He didn't have to try very hard, however, when Annabeth's gaze shifted away from him and fell away to the book on his lap.

"What the_ hell _are you reading?"

* * *

An Excerpt From the Tuesday, September 16, 2008 edition of the _Gotham Gazette, _Business Section, C1:

_**Wayne Enterprises Stocks Drop In Wake of Most Recent Scandal**_

_At the close of the markets Monday evening, Gotham City's business elite were reeling when they that Wayne Enterprise Inc.'s stock droppe $34, to close at _$_163. While this is not nearly as drastic a drop as what occurred during the Depression, it is nevertheless significant, and will cause many investors to stand to attention. There is speculation that Wayne Enterprise's Chair and heir, Bruce Wayne, may have contributed to the company's loss in the wake of his most recent social gaffes. (See Society Section, B2, September 14). Investors are aware of the role Wayne plays in the running of his company, and such direct involvement on the part of Wayne may make some anxious for the stability of the company and their finances. However, while Media Relations at Wayne Enterprises could not be reached immediately for comment, most investors seem unfazed by the most recent hiccup, and Wayne Enterprises is expected to experience a resurgence at the opening of tomorrow's stock markets._

* * *

"Mr. Wayne?" His executive assistant, Jessica, called through on his intercom. "Do you have time for a phone call? I think this might be one that you'll want to take."

Bruce picked up the phone. "Sure, patch it through." He trusted Jessica's instincts, didn't even bother to ask who it was calling. She was one of the few people in his life that actually made things a little easier for him, and her salary certainly reflected his appreciation. As he waited for the phone call to ring through, he leaned back in his chair, gazing out of the panorama that was Gotham.

The phone rang again, and he took his time answering in a lazy drawl. "Bruce Wayne here."

"Mr. Wayne."

He sat bolt upright, completely alert and attentive. "Lucius!"

Months had passed since they had last spoken; months had passed since the day that Lucius Fox had left behind Wayne Enterprises and his powerful position there. Bruce hadn't blamed him; he had understood and respected Lucius' position, even as he knew that what he, Bruce, had done was necessary. He had made sure his invention—his brilliant invention, his best brainchild—was programmed to be destroyed by Lucius, but that hadn't been enough for Lucius, and he had stuck by his resignation. Bruce had respected that, too, and they had parted amicably enough. But the CEO position remained unfilled. Several Board members and even Jessica once or twice had tentatively suggested that they attempt to fill it, but each time Bruce Wayne had turned uncharacteristically curt, even sharp, and rejected the suggestion immediately.

"You certainly have been doing your best to reverse Wayne Enterprise's fortunes, haven't you, Mr. Wayne?" Lucius sounded amused. "I know you. You're an astute businessman in your own right. So what's going wrong?"

"Not really sure, Lucius. You know me and business. I'm just here for the fun." Jessica had come in with a stack of mail and a mug of coffee; he winked at her as she passed his desk, and she pointedly ignored him. As soon as she left, Bruce's tone became more serious. "In all honesty, Lucius...this is a big company, and my time is somewhat...limited. I can't oversee everything, not the way you did."

"Your social gaffes aren't helping matters." The amusement remained in Lucius' voice as he began to gently lecture. "People can develop a surprising sense of morality when it suits their pocketbooks. Your stocks take a slight dive, and your reputation might be the added incentive people need to redirect their resources. People are very twitchy right now."

Both men had been cautiously dancing around the subject, sticking to the roles that most expected each of them to fill; neither of them could be absolutely certain the phone lines were safe. But now it was time to go firmly back into "Brucie" mode.

"Awww, c'mon, Lucius. You know me. It's all just fun." Bruce began to wheedle. "I can't _help _it. People just don't know how to take a joke."

"I'm sure, Mr. Wayne. A pity not everyone gets your sense of humor." Lucius paused. "I hope you know what you're doing. A lot relies on the continued successes of Wayne Enterprises."

"Hey, Lucius?" Now Bruce was all seriousness once more. "Do you think...maybe...we could meet for lunch sometime? Discuss business?"

Lucius was silent for a moment, thinking. "Maybe sometime, Mr. Wayne. But not now...it's too soon."

It wasn't unlike two parted lovers tentatively trying to reach a reconciliation, Bruce mused as he hung up the phone. Not that he could base that observation on any sort of experience.

* * *

Excerpt from the Friday, September 19, 2008 edition of the _Gotham Gazette_, Society Column, Section B1:

_**FUNDRAISER GALA EVENT ANNOUNCED FOR GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT**_

_While the Wayne Foundation invests millions of dollars each year into various charitable, philanthropic, governmental, and non-profit organizations, so too does Gotham's Golden Boy, Mr. Bruce Wayne. In addition to his family's charitable foundation, Mr. Wayne diverts millions of his personal income into what he refers to off-handedly as "worthy causes."_

_In a phone conversation with Mr. Wayne on September 18, the _Gazette _learned that one of his recently-acquired "worthy causes" is the Gotham City Police Department._

_"The police of our city certainly have been doing a fine job of cleaning up our streets," Mr. Wayne stated. "Commissioner Gordon in particular has perfected the art of combining justice with mercy-he sure did go easy on me when I ran that red light a while back and caused an accident. But when it comes to serious crimes and corruption, you won't find anyone more honest and dedicated to fighting it, which is why our city needs to put our entire weight behind the police."_

_To this end, Mr. Wayne announced that he will be holding a fundraising gala event at his family home on Saturday, October 25. In addition to the usual suspects of Gotham's elite, it is anticipated that several national and international celebrities and politicians will be in attendance, as well as Gotham's finest and their families. According to Wayne, the fundraiser will include a carnival and food vendors for the children, and the more typical entertainment for the adults. Given the prolific nature of the attendees and the guests of honor, security will be very tight, and attendance is by engraved invitation only._

* * *

"A carnival, huh? Complete with toothless carnies?"

Annabeth and Bruce were sitting in one of the window booths of Annabeth's favorite diner, each of them engrossed in their own diversions: Annabeth was reading the current morning's newspaper, and Bruce was poring over some blueprints for the new Safe Haven facilities-ostensibly the reason that Bruce had lured her away from the office. It had been a madhouse when they left. A new family had come in the night before, and the children weren't adjusting well. In addition, it was Marjane's last day, and she was having a difficult time saying goodbye to the clients, and some of them had decided to arrange a last-minute farewell party for that evening. The place had been in an uproar, and when, in a moment of distracted exasperation, Annabeth had threatened to throw her shoe at Bruce, he suggested they remove themselves to a saner location.

Although, since Madison Rose was in the next booth, talking to her unseen companions, sanity was a rather relative concept.

"Carnies?" Bruce repeated Annabeth's amused query. "Hadn't thought about that. Toothless carnies would kind of diminish the aura of upper-class superiority typical of these things-"

"But we'd be denying those kids a traditional rite of passage." Annabeth's smile was genuine. "Even I remember the carnies-one of my foster families took me to a carnival over in Blüdhaven when I was eleven. I remember one of the carnies looked a lot like my foster father. It was enough to scare me into good behavior for a month."

Bruce's ears perked up; this was the first time he had heard Annabeth refer to her past. _Better tread carefully, though, _he reminded himself. It had only been in the last week or two that Annabeth had begun to let her guarded exterior slip a little, and she still retreated into her shell from time to time, with amazing speed. "Good behavior, huh? Were you a hellraiser?" He kept his tone offhand, casual, and didn't even look up from his blueprints.

"I had issues." Annabeth clearly was not eager to pursue the subject. "I think the carnival's a good idea. It certainly has a little more taste than some of your past fundraisers. Didn't you have some Roman-themed party that went awry, a while back?"

"Ugh." Bruce grimaced at the memory. "I don't know what was the worst idea-the togas or the vomitorium."

Annabeth's smirk was the only answer he got.

Both of them returned to their tasks in companionable silence-and both were unaware of the small crowd of people gathering outside the diner by their window, until a bright flash caught the attention of both of them. Bruce looked up to see the all-too-familiar view of several retreating papparazzi.

"Oh boy." He looked over at Annabeth and gave her a weak smile. "How do you feel about tabloids?"

Over by the register, Sara was chatting up several of the regulars when the mid-morning peace of the diner was shattered by Annabeth, swearing loudly, colorfully, and at great length, presumably at her table companion. Sara squinted and quickly identified Annabeth's companion-Bruce Wayne, a glutton for punishment if ever there was one. He was currently hunkering down in his seat, obviously amused and a little chagrined, too. Sara smiled and turned back to the regulars. "Don't mind her. You know Annabeth-she's not happy unless she's unhappy with something."

"...not funny! For the holy scrotum of christ, Bruce! Stop laughing. _Goddammit!_" Annabeth paused, more from lack of breath than mercy. She glared at Bruce. "Why the hell are you laughing?"

He choked back another chortle and shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, I really am. I guess I'm just used to the press. I'm sorry...I forgot, this isn't something you've really dealt with before. It requires an entire shift in perspective. It can take some adjusting."

Annabeth was not yet appeased. "What if they identify me? Link me back to Safe Haven?"

"Is public awareness and press coverage really a bad thing?"

"It _can _be, if the wrong people find out. Some of our clients are _in hiding,_Bruce. A certain amount of secrecy and discretion is necessary."

The merriment left his face at once, and Annabeth found herself struck once more by the mercurial nature of Bruce Wayne. She had long since ceased to be surprised when he donned his "serious face", and she knew it was the face he wore when he was about to get something done. "You're right. I didn't think about that." He pulled his cell out of his suit jacket and began dialing.

"Who are you calling?"

"A friend over at the _Gazette..._I won't be able to get them to pull the pictures, but I can make sure they're selective in the information they print..." He paused. "Bruce Wayne, here, for Vicki Vale, please. Yes, I'll hold."

As he waited to begin pulling his strings, Annabeth suddenly laughed. "Well, look at it like this, Bruce. It's about the most innocent thing that they've caught you doing in a very long time. It might actually repair your reputation."

Her laughter stopped abruptly as an unusually calculating look came into Bruce Wayne's eyes. Annabeth had given him an idea...

* * *

Headlines From the Thursday, Sepetember 18, 2008 edition of the _Gotham Gazette:_

_**2 MORE DEAD, POLICE BAFFLED; CAUTION URGED**_

_In what has become an alarming trend, two more people were murdered in this morning's early hours, in a manner consistent with that of the previous several victims. Gotham City Police MCU are withholding the current victims' names and identities until more evidence has been gathered._

_Commissioner Gordon released the following press statement earlier today:_

_"While we hesitate to verify that this recent rash of murders is the work of a serial killer, more evidence is beginning to point to this likelihood. We would like to assure the citizens of our city that the full weight of the Gotham City Police is being brought to bear in the task of locating the party or parties responsible for these crimes and bringing them to justice. In the meantime, we wish to urge all citizens to exercise extreme caution when in public after dark. Be alert for suspicious behavior, and do not assume that because you are not located in an unsafe neighborhood, you are safe..."_

* * *

As September progressed, the humid summer began to wane. Already, the days were beginning to lose the last of their warmth, and the nights were already downright chilly. Jim Gordon knew this for a fact, because he was sitting out on the rooftop of MCU once more, shivering in the biting night air. Even with his jacket, the chill permeated through to his skin. Detective Montoya had thoughtfully provided him with a thermos of coffee, for which Gordon was grateful-it looked as though he might be up here for a while.

"Too cold for a picnic."

_Or not._

The Batman emerged out of the shadows and approached his comrade. The two men stared at each other for a moment, and finally, Gordon spoke.

"I've been doing some thinking. About these murders." He glanced over at the Batman, who nodded for him to continue. "What if it's not completely random? What if these people are being chosen and killed for a specific purpose?"

"What purpose?"

"A message." Gordon was struggling to articulate the hunch that he had been nurturing for almost ten days. "We're not picking up nearly as many prostitutes and pimps as we normally do."

"Murdering them is bad for business. They're probably scared for the moment."

Gordon shook his head. "No. I don't think you understand the nature of that business. It gets pretty hand-to-mouth; they can't afford _not_ to do business for more than a few days. This is different-it's like they've got protection. Different protection. And the prostitutes we are arresting, they're not owning up to their pimps. It's like they don't have pimps anymore."

"That's unlikely."

"I know. So where the hell are they? Who's running these prostitution rings?"

The Batman was beginning to see where Gordon was going with this. "You think that those murders were a message to the prostitutes?"

"And the call girls, and the pimps. I think someone's trying to consolidate control over Gotham's sex industry."

The two men moved closer, and Gordon lowered his voice, almost afraid to say what he was thinking. "If that's the case, we're never going to find this killer. No one gives a damn who runs the sex trade in this city. Whether it's a thousand pimps, or none, it won't make a difference. The only way we're going to solve these murders is if they're tied in to something bigger."

The Batman stood completely still, his head lowered in thought. When he spoke, his voice was as gruff as ever, but somewhat hesitant and contemplative, too. "Do you think they are?"

Gordon nodded decisively. "I think it's all tied back in with the Arrows. I don't know how, yet...but I'm almost positive. I think they're consolidating, about to pull something big. I don't know what, and I don't know how to prove it. One of the women that was killed today...she wasn't a prostitute."

"Who was she?"

"Mary Adamo. She's a former girlfriend of Jones le Blanc."

"Was she in hiding?"

"She had initiated contact with us through Safe Haven, but she hadn't gone into hiding yet." Gordon wasn't happy to be delivering this news. "She had gone to them in the past, after she left le Blanc. This was about eighteen months back-she never squealed on him, but a few weeks back, she piped up. Contacted us after she spoke with Annabeth de Burgh-Annabeth was the person who contacted me to give me the heads-up."

_Annabeth again._The Batman had hoped that all of that had passed. He knew her well enough now to know that her integrity and courage were unimpeachable. "I investigated Annabeth de Burgh." His voice deepened, grew even more threatening. "She's clean. She's not involved with them."

Gordon was no longer intimidated by the voice and demeanor of the Batman. He was still impressed, just a little, but definitely not intimidated. "I know she's not involved. But that's a lot of coincidence." He began pacing the roof. "We didn't have a chance to talk with Mary Adamo after she contacted us...she went silent. Decided not to say anything. But apparently, that was enough for someone."

"I'll find out who's behind all this." This had long since ceased to be "just business" for the Batman. Not only were horrible deaths occurring, not only was something big about to go down—that that much both he and Jim Gordon knew, instinctively—but it was also affecting Annabeth. Her reputation, her job, her very peace of mind had all taken a thrashing because of this. He was willing to bet his Batpod that she was out there in the Narrows right now, conducting her own investigation, trying to protect unknowing victims, trying to save countless women. She was at risk in any number of ways, and it unnerved his as he imagined her there, not knowing of how much danger truly stalked her.

And stalked him, too-every second he thought about Annabeth while he was in Batman mode, he was distracted and weakened, and he endangered himself. And if he fell, how soon would Gotham fall, too?

Apparently Gordon was thinking along the same lines. As the Batman prepared to vault himself off the roof, he glanced back at his friend. The Commissioner was looking at him with eyes that had seen too many good soldiers fall. "Be careful," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I hate to say it, but we need you now more than ever."

And then he was gone, and once more, Gordon was left alone, with his thoughts and doubts and misgivings, but more than anything, his ever-strengthening belief that he had somehow, single-handedly, placed Gotham City's future in the hands of an enigmatic, possibly unstable man whose name he would likely never know. He could only pray the Batman was worthy.

So far, he knew his prayers had been answered.

The Batman was hard at work.

It had been a busy night, in the best sense: he had prevented several petty thefts, mainly, and broken up one street brawl-hardly major crimes. He'd spent a fair amount of time listening to the police frequencies, and lurking some of the seedier red-light districts, keeping an eye out in vain for any activity that might help his investigation. As the night marched on towards dawn, the Batman steadily marched on as well, putting in another night in the endless battle.

All the while, however, as he roamed the streets and lurked in the shadows, he hadn't been alone. His thoughts had been crowded, jumbled, filled with the image of a woman's face, ringing with the stern voice of a woman that he could not expel from his mind, whether he was in Kevlar or Armani. It hadn't distracted him yet; only provided a continuous white noise that was not entirely unwelcome.

For the first time, he felt as though he were fighting for something other than the deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Now he was silently following a group of thugs. He'd overheard a couple of 911 calls on them, and figured that they were some young punks looking for a reason to be out at this time of night, looking for some sort of havoc to wreak.

As far as the Batman was concerned, they were simply looking for someone obliging enough to jerk a knot in their collective tail.

So, with his characteristic stealth, he followed them, keeping close as they roved through Old Gotham, every now and then knocking over a trash can, or breaking into rowdy yells and howls of laughter. So far, no major trouble...

But then, one of them caught sight of a stray cat, skulking by a dumpster, and with the uncalculated cruelty that somehow seemed to breed only in large groups of lazy and unintelligent people, the group cornerd the cat, their intent to torment written clearly on their dull faces. With so many against one, the cat had no chance of escaping-one of the men kicked it, caught it in its belly, and stunned it.

Silently, the Batman observed the scene. The group had fallen silent, each of them waiting for one of the others to make the next move.

The cat meowed once, piteously.

One of the largest young men shuffled forward then, swinging his foot and catching the cat on one of its hind legs. The cat screamed, its feline voice sounding eerily like a female in distress. A couple of the men laughed, and one started to say something-

-and fell silent in abject terror as the Batman dropped down into their midst.

He had designed his suit with any number of purposes in mind: function, of course, and even a certain amount of aesthetics, but above all, its intent was to inspire fear. If your enemies are afraid, they will run, and if they run, there's a few less you have to take out in the fight. Simple and efficient, and even expedient—a psychological weapon that worked when fighting crime. And it worked now, as the Batman watched in satisfaction as the majority of the group scattered, leaving only a few of the older, larger, and dumber males behind, staring at him in silence.

"Cat got your tongue?" he taunted them, and that was enough for the largest to lunge towards him. He wanted to wrestle, the Batman could see, and was going to try to tackle him at the torso. He remained his casual fighter's stance until the last possible moment, and as the wrestler closed in the last foot, the Batman crouched down quickly and rammed his cowled head into the wrestler's midsection. A deep, pained grunt was the confirmation the Batman needed to know that he'd knocked the wind out of his opponent, and a gloved fist smashed into his chin rendered him unconscious.

The other two moved in at the same time, intending to gang up on him. It didn't deter him in the slightest, however; he'd gone up against a lot more, a lot worse than two punks with a hankering for trouble. His movements were lightning-fast. Crouching down once more, he shifted his weight to his right leg while kicking out with his left, catching one of the men's legs and taking him down immediately. The Batman heard a distinct thud and crack; one of the man's legs was broken.

The Batman turned and looked at the third opponent, who had, at some point in watching his two friends get pummeled, decided to rethink his strategy. Slowly he backed off, not turning his back. He stared at the Batman through wide, terrified eyes.

Time to deliver the message. "Next time you want to hurt something," he told the kid, "try each other."

The kid took off, and the Batman was left with two incapacitated opponents and one very unhappy cat.

* * *

After a quick and anonymous trip to the Gotham City Humane Society-the same one he had thumbed his nose at, under another identity-the Batman noticed a distinct lightening of the sky, from inky black to dark blue. Soon the blue would fade to gray, and then to more brilliant colors as the sun began to rise. It was time to go home.

It had been a good night, yes-reasonably productive in crime-fighting. While it was always nice to stop something major from going down, it was even better to know that sometimes, some nights, there simply wasn't anything major happening. It was the calm before the storm, however, and he had gotten no closer to figuring out what was going on with the Arrows, or who was killing the women, or why, suddenly, so many of the sex workers were keeping such a low profile. Gordon was beginning to take it hard—although the Batman suspected that this was not the only thing plaguing the man he was beginning to consider a friend. Perhaps it was time for Bruce Wayne to step up and become a friend, too.

The Tumbler made its way through the city and freeways, and the Batman was free to rest, reflect, and consider his strategies. Sometimes, he felt as though this were his favorite time of the entire day, this time when he could remain still and inactive, yet alert. He could enjoy the feeling of a job (hopefully) well done, and not yet worry about what might be waiting for him when he returned to the Batcave. This was the time of day when he felt the most at peace. As Batman, he felt energized, adrenalized, driven; as "Brucie" Wayne, he felt stultified and smothered by his self-imposed fake identity, as Bruce Wayne he simply felt lost and alone, never quite sure how to act or what to say. But when he was in the Tumbler, driving away from one identity and heading towards another, he didn't feel the need to be either of them.

Alfred was waiting for him in the Batcave upon his return. Whether his butler had just arisen from sleep, or never went to bed the night before, the Batman was never certain. Alfred was an extraordinarily gifted actor, and knew how to hide any fatigue he might be feeling. He stood there, quietly, posture proudly erect, yet ready to spring into action if the Batman emerged from the Tumbler with injuries.

Fortunately, tonight wasn't one of those times. Alfred watched as the Batman rose from the Tumbler, intact and whole, and began to make his way deeper into the Batcave. Alfred followed silently, keeping an eye out for any hidden injuries that his charge might be too proud to mention. "Quiet night, Master Wayne?"

"Yes, Alfred." The Batman pulled the cowl off, and Bruce Wayne's face emerged, his expression carefully arranged into a stoic mask. Nonetheless, Alfred didn't fail to notice that something was on Bruce Wayne's mind. "It was fairly quiet. Although, Lucius was right-the suit _does_ hold up against cats." The stray cat he had rescued and brought to the Humane Society hadn't particularly appreciated the gesture, and although he had captured it easily enough, it had done its best to scratch him up. When that failed, it resorted to spraying the interior of the Tumbler. "Are you any good at getting cat urine out of upholstery?"

With a look of deep distaste settling onto his patrician face, Alfred sighed and headed towards the vehicle. "The things that will go on my resume..."

Half an hour later, when he returned to the work area, he found the Batman hunched over his work table, reading over a stack of files. Alfred peered over his shoulder, and saw that once more, Annabeth de Burgh was the object of the Batman's attention.

"Perhaps you'd be able to focus better after a few hours' rest, sir?" Alfred gently hinted. "It's almost six-thirty in the morning, and you have a busy day ahead of you."

The Batman didn't respond.

Alfred sat down at his own workspace, a few feet away, and quietly waited. Fifteen minutes passed before the Batman looked up from the meager contents of the file and turned to him. "What did you find out about her, Alfred? Tell me."

The older man shifted his eyes away from the Batman. "I told you, sir...I wish I hadn't done it, now. It isn't the kind of thing that one should learn about without her having the choice to tell whom she wishes."

The Batman frowned. "I could find it on my own, you know." It wasn't a threat, merely a statement of the obvious.

"I know you could, Master Wayne. But just because you _can _and you _want to _doesn't mean you _should_. Remember when I talked about limits, before Miss Rachel died?" He ignored the look that the Batman gave him and plunged on. "I was not just speaking of _physical _limits, I was talking of _ethical _limits, too. What is easy, and what is possible, is not always right, even if it is for the greater good. Torturing people, violating their privacy, taking away their free will and right to decide-those are limits, and ones that you should respect." Alfred paused, and went on in a gentler voice, "And violating Annabeth de Burgh's privacy wouldn't be for any greater good. It would be to satisfy your own curiosity and fascination."

There. Alfred had hit the nail on the head, without even intending to, and had provided Bruce with the word he had been struggling to find. Fascination. The Batman and Bruce Wayne were fascinated by Annabeth. It was something Alfred sensed, too, for a moment later, he continued. "...And how do explain your desire to know more about Miss de Burgh, sir? You've determined she is playing no role in these murders."

The Batman didn't answer, but did have the grace to look slightly sheepish.

"If you like her, sir, there is no shame in that." Alfred smiled, a thought occurring to him. "It merely underscores your humanity. But you must learn to like her, and get to know her as Bruce Wayne would. Not as the Batman can."

The Batman's mind was racing, dancing back and forth between memories of Rachel and images of Annabeth. So similar, yet so essentially different-with Rachel, there was a past, a history between them, a camaraderie forged through years together and an estrangement forced by years apart. She had neither understood nor approved of the Batman, and it had been her disapproval that had driven the final wedge between them. _But__ she would have waited for him. _With Annabeth, he knew so little, yet enough to keep him enthralled; she was her own woman, seemingly a life buoy, isolated, yet always trying to save another drowning person, and living a strange life alone, apart, with only enough warmth to give the people she helped.

He saw himself in Annabeth. Yes, that was it-he saw himself in her, isolated, adrift, driven by unseen demons and pain. And yet, there was something else...in Annabeth's sharp antagonism, her quiet courage, her carefully-constructed walls, he had found someone who coaxed out the real Bruce Wayne.

"Alfred." He spoke in his normal voice, deep but not gruff, only a little hesitant. "It's like this...I feel like my identity is a scale, a spectrum. At one end, there's the Batman...at the other end, there's 'Brucie' Wayne." He spat out these last words, his distaste ringing through in every syllable.

"Neither is a particularly desirable identity to take on all the time, sir."

"No. Neither causes me great happiness, neither gives me particular release." He paused, then reconsidered. "No—not quite true. Being the Batman gives me some purpose, some fulfillment. But I would be insane if I were to say that's all I need. I have to believe that I am more than that suit, that will, that anger, that purpose. And I have to believe that I am more than a vapid, womanizing wastrel."

"To hear you say these things, sir, reassures me that you are still well in control of your sanity," Alfred chuckled. "But in all seriousness, Master Wayne, the day that you embrace your night-time identity to the total neglect and rejection of all else is the day that I fear you have begun to lose your grip on reality."

"That's just it, Alfred. I know all of this. But how do I keep it from happening? How do I keep a grasp on my identity? I'm not even truly sure of what my identity is!" He glanced around at the Batcave, at the machinery and electronics and weaponry and files and medical supplies. "It's more than this, but somehow...it's buried. I thought Rachel knew what it was, knew how to bring it out...you know she was going to wait for me, wait for me to relinquish this identity and embrace the 'real' me. But I don't know who that is."

Many, many times, Alfred had questioned whether or not he had been right to burn Rachel's letter. He would never, ever tell Bruce what he had done...but he could give a variation of the story.

"Master Bruce...I want you to listen to me." Alfred's tone compelled the younger man to raise his head and pay attention. "Miss Rachel...I know she loved you, in her own way. But it wouldn't have been enough. Before...before she died, she told me...she told me that she had decided to marry Harvey Dent. It would have been too much for her, I think. I don't think she could have handled you, loved you, accepted you as you deserved. And I think she knew that."

Bruce had comepletely abandoned The Batman identity, despite the fact that he still wore the suit. "Alfred...why? Why now? Why are you telling me this?" To his own surprise, Bruce was beginning to feel a tightening in his throat and a stinging in his eyes. He hadn't cried since the week after Rachel's death, when he had fallen into a deep depression and mourned as obsessively as he could.

Alfred held out his hands, a gesture of helplessness. _"Mea culpa." _He looked hard at Bruce. "I didn't know if it was right to tell you. You were...broken. We all were. We all mourned, we all questioned our role in what happened." For a moment, he wondered if he was going to cry, too, and cleared his throat gruffly. "But you were already so angry with yourself, and you needed no more reasons. You needed to believe that others believed in you, and loved you."

"And now?"

"Time has passed. You must still believe that...but believe it based on what might happen in the future, and not what has happened in the past. Master Wayne, you must decide who you want to be. You must find someone who will accept all facets of your character, not make you choose which one you will be."

Bruce laughed then, a harsh, bitter laugh. "I don't know if that's possible."

"I don't know, either, sir, but that doesn't excuse you from trying to find out. Cautiously, of course."

"Alfred...how can I expect someone to accept me when I barely know who I am, myself?" Bruce didn't wait for an answer. "I said a little while ago, that it felt like my personality is on a spectrum, and I'm constantly living my life at one extreme or the other. It's exhausting. And I know, deep down, long term, that neither will be enough." He was struggling to articulate a thought, and knew that as soon as he voiced it, it would have power, exist, and he could not take it back. "When I'm with Annabeth, it feels like she brings me more to the center of that spectrum-where I should be. Where I want to be."

The two men sat in silence, each regarding the other. Bruce looked apprehensive, as though he expected Alfred to judge him and find him lacking. And Alfred looked infinitely pleased.

Finally, Bruce turned back to the files, to his work. He was on the verge of becoming the Batman once more-and then Alfred spoke, and his voice had a lilting merriment to it that had been absent for a very long time. "

"Even when you speak of her, Master Bruce, you sound as though you are in the center of that spectrum." He paused to give his words the dramatic effect. "And I think I'd like to get to know that person who you say is there."

Enough. Bruce was well and truly exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to make his way to his bedroom for a shower, some breakfast, and a few hours' sleep. He rose and began to make his way towards the stairs that would take him up to Wayne Manor, 'Brucie' Wayne, and all of the burdens entailed with both. Alfred followed behind him, carefully picking up the armor as Bruce shed each piece. Just before they began the ascent, the butler spoke.

"Pardon my asking, sir...but is this all a rather moot point? Doesn't Miss Annabeth harbor some...antipathy towards you?"

"Antipathy, Alfred, would be putting it mildly. But I'm working on her...after all, I need a crusade during my daylight hours, too." The smile that Bruce gave him was cocky, confident, and even a little bit hopeful-just a little more evidence that he was moving ever-closer to the center of that spectrum.

When Alfred continued on with his morning chores and duties, it was with a heart that was very light indeed.


	12. Chapter 12

Excerpt from the Sunday, September 21, 2008 edition of the _Gotham Gazette, _Society Column, Section B1:

_**Billionaire's Blunder Causes International Uproar**_

_Due to the latest in a series of blunders and social gaffes committed by Gotham City's star billionaire, Bruce Wayne, the Pakistani Ambassador to the United States, Dawar Khattak, has cut short his visit to Gotham City._

_The latest offense occurred at Saturday's International Peace Corps Dinner, in which Wayne allegedly prospositioned Khattack's niece, Ameera Khattack. Both were visiting Gotham City in their attempts to broker more harmonious relations between the United States, India, and Pakistan._

_Muslims at home and abroad have begun gathering in protest of the "decadent and licentious" lifestyle of the West, and to decry the disrespect with which foreigners are regarded in the United States. As of this morning, the Pakistani Embassy in Washington D.C. was not returning phone calls for comment._

_Bruce Wayne issued the following statement:_

_"It is with deepest dismay that I offer my sincerest apologies to His Excellency Ambassador Khattak and his niece, Miss Ameera Khattak. It's very unfortunate that this miscommunication caused such a rift, and please know that I would like very much to make amends and heal whatever damage has been done."_

* * *

On Monday morning, Annabeth was lying in wait for Bruce. As soon as she heard his voice echoing down the corridor, she poked her head out her office door. "Bruce! Just the man I was looking for."

Bruce's face lit up. "Really?"

"Mmm." Her smirk was pure evil. "Maybe not. Got a moment?"

"I've got several." He ambled over to her. "An infinite amount, in fact. The only thing on my plate today is tee-time at three."

"This shouldn't take that long. You'll have plenty of time to chase the girls around the golf course." Annabeth returned to her desk, the ever-present barrier she kept between herself and the indefatigable Bruce. She pointed at the newspaper lying on her desk. "For the love of god, Bruce, what did you do? I swear, reading the paper was never this much fun before I knew you. It had to be bad, if Vale won't even specify."

Bruce settled in the seat across from her. "It was a...miscommunication."

"So you said in the paper. Just what the hell were you trying to communicate?" Annabeth actually grinned in anticipatory glee.

"Uuuh..." Bruce cast his eyes down for a moment; a sure sign of guilt. "I may have...um...suggested we try out some of the positions of the _Kama Sutra_...I think my exact words were, 'Your ancestors probably knew what they were writing about. Let's honor them.'"

Annabeth gaped at him, momentarily speechless. It was at that critical moment that Donna bustled her way into the room. "Good morning, kids...Bruce. Here again? My goodness. Not only do we get your donations, but we also have the charm of your constant presence." She didn't wait for him to respond; her attention was diverted to Annabeth, who was still sitting in aghast silence. "Annabeth?" She turned to Bruce. "I'm amazed—you rendered her speechless. That's it, you can have my job. I'm retiring. I've seen it all. Do I even want to know what you did?"

Bruce grinned sheepishly, but before he could respond, Annabeth had located her voice. "What he _did_, Donna, was suggest to a single, morally upright, Pakistani female that she should try some _Kama Sutra _positions on him. The _Kama Sutra!" _She shook her head in disbelief. "Bruce, the _Kama Sutra _is an _Indian _text!"

"Oh, you know it?" Outwardly, Bruce made no efforts to disguise his delight; inwardly, a very mischievous part of him was having quite a ball. "I've got a question about something I read in there. Maybe you could show me—"

"Not a hope in Gotham, mister. You propositioned a _Pakistani _female with an _Indian _sex book? Am I the only one making the connection here? I'm amazed there hasn't been an international incident!"

Bruce let the light of realization dawn on his face. "Oh...aren't India and Pakistan always fighting?"

"Yes, Bruce, YES. And let's not forget that you propositioned a Muslim woman! That's incredibly offensive...not only that, but she was the niece of the Ambassador!" Annabeth began spluttering with disbelieving laughter. "Were you high? Were you having an _episode?_Did your brain fart?"

He shrugged. "It was a mistake. I feel bad."

"I'm surprised that your companies have lasted this long. Have your investors not yet been clued into the fact that Wayne Enterprises is being run by a total and complete spaz?"

"Actually," Donna chimed in, "I think they've gotten the memo. Last I heard, Bruce, Wayne Enterprises is down another twenty-seven dollars."

Annabeth smirked. "It feels so nice to say 'I told you so.'" She turned to her computer and began checking her email; she had only so much time to devote to Bruce Wayne's nonsense.

Bruce responded with a groan. "Can't the press go easy on me for _once? _You'd think twenty hours a week at a battered women's shelter would give them a little something else to talk about."

"Hrm." Donna wasn't impressed. "I bet they probably just figure it's a low-effort way for Bruce Wayne to score some easy dates."

Annabeth couldn't resist jumping back in. "I know it's what I thought at first. Wait a second..." she frowned. "Why _haven't _you been trying to score some dates here?"

Bruce looked slightly offended. "You may think I'm a moron, Annabeth, but even I've got enough sense to know that the residents here have enough problems without me adding to them."

"Your consideration is astounding." Annabeth shook her head. "I don't think you're a moron, Bruce. I just think that..." What _did _she think, anyway? Come to think of it, it seemed like she was spending more and more of her time trying not to think about him. Dammit. "I just think you have a little too much fun pretending to be a moron." She turned back to her computer.

"You need to do some damage control," Donna told him. "Something to make you the media darling. You don't get it. You're rich, handsome, and not altogether an asshole. The media and the public _want _to love you, that's why they're so fascinated with you."

"I suppose you're right," Bruce nodded. "But what should I do?" He leaned towards Donna, oozing eagerness.

Donna frowned, gave a little shrug. "I don't know...I'm not a PR rep." She tapped her manicured fingernails against the arm rest for a moment, trying to conjure some ideas. "I think you need to be a little more circumspect. Keep your mouth shut a little more, drink a little less. Be a little more selective in your company, choose more carefully with whom you spend your time." Her sparkling eyes lit up with a brilliant idea, and she leaned forward, too, and caught Bruce's arm. "You should spend some more time in public with decent people. A carefully-selected lady. Maybe some nice, quiet, real-world type girl."

Annabeth had turned from her computer to her battered purse, in which where she was rooting around for her planner.

"A woman who's good-hearted, has a social conscience."

Annabeth then directed her energies towards her file cabinet and began methodically placing various papers in their respective folders.

"A hard-working lady with good sense and good class. Someone who isn't completely self-obsessed and trying to make sure she looks perfect every second."

Both Bruce and Donna had turned to Annabeth by this point. As they watched Annabeth, a chunk of her long brown hair slipped out of her messy ponytail, and as she brushed the hair out of her face, she left an inky smudge on her cheek.

"Someone who had enough common sense to make up for your glaring lack of it." Donna finished up, her smile triumphant.

Annabeth glanced up from her planner, where she had started to diligently plan out her day. "You two are still here?" She saw them both staring at her. "What? Am I missing something?"

Bruce gave her his most charming, winning smile, let his eyes twinkle appreciatively. "Annabeth, are you busy tonight?"

"Huh?" Annabeth was bewildered for a moment...and then she realized their plot. "Oh, no. _No."_

"Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?"

"Oh, christ." Annabeth buried her head in her hands. "Shit, shit, shit."

Bruce turned to Donna. "Not usually the reaction I get. This is a new experience."

"Annabeth." Donna invoked her "I-am-supervisor-hear-me-roar" voice. "Manners. Bruce is asking you out this evening. You should say yes."

Annabeth raised her head briefly. "I think this is considered sexual harassment in most civilized countries."

"She's got a point," Bruce conceded.

"Shush!" Donna admonished him. "Annabeth, listen. This is a favor-Bruce has helped us out, immensely. Now we have the chance to help him."

Bruce did his best to look like he needed help.

"Why don't you help him?" Annabeth was grasping at straws, but Donna was brushing away what few there were.

"Not me-they won't buy it. I'm on the social scene already, and I'm too old. A cougar. Too much of a MILF."

Annabeth threw Bruce a look of confusion. "What's a 'MILF'?"

He winced. "Don't ask. I'd rather you remain ignorant."

"Annabeth..." Donna wheedled. "Bruce has been really good to us."

Now Bruce was starting to get into it. "Come on, Annabeth. Just come out with me for a few weeks...just long enough to give the press something good to say about me. It'll be a business arrangement."

"Oh-ho!" Annabeth sat back in her chair. "A 'business arrangement'? And just what 'service' am I supposed to offer?"

"Annabeth." Donna's tone was sharp now. "Don't be like that."

"No, no," Bruce interjected. "She has a point." He turned to Annabeth, and once again, she was treated to the unnerving aspect of a serious Bruce Wayne. "Donna's given us a good idea, Annabeth. Look at it this way: spend some time with me, extracurricularly, over the next few weeks. Let the press write about that-let them assume there's something going on between us. You won't have to do anything to make them think it, just don't disabuse them of the notion. Let them _think _it's a romantic fling. Help me get a little good press coverage. Be my friend, for pity's sake. And you'll get a chance to meet more people."

He had hit the right chord, and had captured Annabeth's attention, if not yet her cooperation. "What kinds of people?"

"The kinds with large pocketbooks and political clout." Bruce dangled that in front of her; it was his last, best, and final offer, the best bait he had, and if he knew her, she'd bite.

Annabeth was starting to waver. "I'm not sure the press coverage would be that great, Bruce." She glanced at Donna. "If they do some digging, they'll find out plenty about me. And it's not good-if Gotham had trailer parks, that's where I would have been born and raised."

_Interesting description, _Bruce noted, and added it to the few other scraps he had gleaned about her. "It doesn't matter," he told her. "You're new, you're different, you're _real. _You're a social worker, for crying out loud. They'll eat it up. All you have to do is essentially be my friend, and let the press think there's more to it."

"You're already his friend, aren't you?" Donna pointed out.

"Well...I don't hate you. I suppose it's a step towards friendship." Annabeth still wasn't convinced, however. "I really don't see how hanging out with me in public is going to enhance your image."

"You don't read the tabloids," Bruce pointed out. This much, he knew was true. Decades in the limelight had made him wise to the inconsistent affections of the public and the press, and Annabeth simply was too superior to pay attention to either the publicity that surrounded most celebrities, or the reaction from the readers.

Wait...why _had _she been paying attention to all the articles about him lately? Was it at all possible that, despite her best efforts, she might be just the slightest bit interested in him?

This realization alone made him redouble his efforts. "Annabeth, please? We already go to the cafe together sometimes...we'll just be switching locations. Some swanky places, a few parties. That type of thing." Bruce struggled to think of what else might appeal to her. "Some fundraisers?"

She was almost there. "Just friends, right? No sex, no funny stuff."

"Just funny enough so that we can laugh at the press for having fooled them," Bruce assured her. "On my honor, as a gentleman."

"Hrmph." Annabeth shook her head. "That's no honor at all." She paused. "Okay, fine. For a short while, I will pretend to be your flavor of the month. Just long enough to repair your reputation...and short enough so that you don't drag mine through the mud with yours."

Donna grinned. Bruce looked absolutely ecstatic. And Annabeth wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into.

The Top of Gotham was the new "in" restaurant. It was hip, it was swanky, it was _the _place to be. The restaurant owners had poached the Head Chef from one of the best restaurants in New York, and rumor that was currently circulating through the city was that she had only been bought with the promise that she would inherit the business. The restaurant commanded stunning views of Gotham, and overlooked Wayne Towers to the south and Robinson Park to the north. To the east one could see the vast, dark expanse of the Atlantic, to the west one could, on a clear evening, find themselves the surprised spectators of a glorious sunset. Dinner usually cost well over a hundred dollars a person, not including wine or spirits, and those lucky enough to get a seat paid as much for the atmosphere as they did the food. Fortunately, on neither count did they ever find themselves disappointed.

However, all of this was lost on Annabeth. She sat, alone, in the best spot of the restaurant, a lovely, secluded booth facing west, into the fading pinks and oranges of a trademark Gotham sunset. She completely ignored the view. She ignored the menu that the supercilious host had placed in her hands, and she ignored all of the wealthy, beautiful people who filled the room. The only thing Annabeth was paying attention to was her watch.

6:15 PM.

Annabeth was not pleased. She had let Bruce and Donna wheedle and guilt-trip her into this hare-brained scheme, she had actually called off sick from the hospital to put the plan into effect...and she was waiting here as the minutes ticked on, and Bruce Wayne's non-presence irked her more and more. Apparently, tardiness was one class he must have excelled at in college.

"Miss, would you like some more water?" The waitress, at least, was a little more friendly and genuine than the host had been. Annabeth smiled up at her, and with deft efficiency, the waitress refilled Annabeth's crystal goblet.

Back in college, in some obscure history class Annabeth took to meet some equally obscure credit requirement, she became familiar with the concept of _liminality..._a period of transition between two points, in which one loses some of their identity and self-awareness. Vacations were liminal places, her professor had told the class, as were rituals. In liminal states, people relaxed their normal patterns of thought and behavior. And as Annabeth idly watched her waitress go about her work, it occurred to her-lately, her entire life had become a liminal state. She didn't even want to think what she was transitioning from, and what she was transitioning into. Liminiality meant transitioning, and transitioning meant change, and Annabeth didn't care much for that.

But...if she were in a liminal state...

"What the hell," she muttered, startling the waitress. Annabeth smiled up at her, flinging all reserve out the figurative window. "This happen a lot?" she asked the waitress. "Lots of ladies get stood up here?"

The waitress smiled at her. "Not too many. I wouldn't worry—if you start out alone, usually some guy comes along and invites himself to your table. The way it seems to play out, you may come here alone, but you usually don't leave that way."

"Lovely." Annabeth was going to kill Bruce, happily stomp on his pretty-boy face and tell him where to shove his fucking _Kama Sutra. _"May I have a glass of Merlot?" She squinted at the waitress's nametage. "Macy."

"Sure thing." Macy grinned and leaned in closer. "You don't come here often, do you?"

Annabeth smiled grimly. "Is it that obvious?"

Macy was already heading away, but she turned back for a moment. "You actually speak to the staff."

Once more, Annabeth was left alone, and not too much happier than before. There was only so much idle chit-chat she could make with Macy, and only so much she could take of this crowd.

Suddenly, Bruce appeared, standing at the table, impeccably dressed and bearing an ever-so-slightly-enticing scent of masculinity and cologne. He was dressed casually, for him; no tuxes, for once, and no Armani, just meticulously pressed black slacks and a wine-red collared shirt. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Alfred insisted that I change before I come...he said the tuxedo was overdoing it." He took in Annabeth's cocktail dress, and if he noticed that its style was from five years back, his appreciative glance gave no indication. "I think Alfred may have been wrong. "

He slid into the seat across from her and gave her a smile-not the absent-minded, trademark "Brucie" smile, but a genuine one that went straight to his eyes. "You look lovely. Where'd you get the dress on such short notice?"

"Donna." Annabeth's reply was short and terse. "She has a closetful."

"How'd that happen?"

"I told you, she was married to money. I guess she managed to come away with the designer clothes, too. Lucky for me."

"Lucky for _me, _I'd say. That color blue is stunning on you." Bruce continued to eye her appreciatively.

"Bruce." Annabeth's voice was sharp and commanded his attention. "I'm only going to say this once. I cut out of my second job tonight, on very short notice, because of this crackpot plan that you and Donna have hatched between you. And then you showed up late. I don't care if you were changing your tux or your tire, I don't care if you were curing cancer or killing that Joker guy, I don't care if the whole of Gotham is demanding your attention elsewhere, or if the entire Russian ballet just offered to give you a personalized lapdance. When you tell me you're going to be at a certain place at a certain time, you will be there. You will respect me and my time, or you find a new playmate. Understand?"

He nodded once, with utter solemnity. "I _am _sorry that I was late. It was really rude of me." And then his eyes crinkled with mischief. "Did anyone tell you how beautifully scary you are when you get angry? I find it disturbingly compelling, sometimes."

"I find you disturbingly repugnant, sometimes." Annabeth finished the parry by snapping open her menu and taking refuge behind it, but Bruce was having none of that.

"Don't be angry." His voice had that wheedling tone that she had long since learned to beware of. "C'mon, Annabeth. It's a beautiful evening-look at that sunset." For a moment, Bruce was surprised at himself—it had been a long time since he had appreciated a setting sun, or regarded it as the beginning of anything other than his usual nocturnal activities. But it _was _beautiful; the entire western horizon was ablaze with colors only nature could produce. It astounded him, how much more aware he became in her presence.

"Here you are." Macy the Waitress had reappeared, not with the Merlot, but with a bottle of Krug champagne. She gave Annabeth an apologetic smile. "I'll bring the wine out later. Mr. Wayne ordered this."

"I'm sure he did." Annabeth smiled through gritted teeth, and from her eyes flowed a river of poison rushing towards the impervious island that was Bruce. She sat quietly while Macy opened the bottle, poured, and discreetly withdrew. "Are you always this chauvinist?"

"Are you always this misguidedly feminist?" Bruce shot back.

It was unexpected, to say the least. Annabeth blinked, not quite sure she had heard him correctly. For the entirety of the brief time she had known him, she had been heckling, nagging, poking fun at his expense, and each time, he took it with good nature and nary a retort. It almost took the fun out of it...but now...

"'Misguidedly feminist'?" Annabeth repeated, pursing her lips. "How so?"

They stared at each other for a moment before Bruce spoke, and when he did, his words were slow, measured, well-thought out. "You're your own woman. That's good. You're independent, that's better. You're what women _should _be, you're what women should have been had men not been total assholes for...I don't know, centuries. At times, you embody exactly what feminists fought for all along. All of this is good. It's sexy." He let a little bit of 'Brucie' flirt his way back into the conversation to throw her off.

"This is going to come as a tragic surprise to you, Bruce. But I don't act the way I do as a way to entice men. It's not intended as sex appeal. It's just who I am."

"I _know _that. But it's still sexy, and it's exciting, too, because it's what things should have been like all along. And that's incredible...but...you've taken it to the other extreme. You don't have to emasculate every male in order to prove your own worth as a woman."

"And you don't have to jump around from woman to woman, seducing and flirting and bringing them to your bed and making 'conquests' to prove your own worth as a man!" Annabeth retorted.

Bruce smiled. "Touché," he said softly, and passed her a glass of champagne.

Annabeth wasn't quite through yet. "Do you even know how to spell _emasculate?"_

"Sure I do." Bruce smiled, unperturbed by her scorn. "It's in the dictionary...right before 'emu'." He raised his glass, and almost reluctantly, Annabeth followed suit. "Here's to new friendships and partnerships, and where ever they may lead."

"No where good, I'm sure," Annabeth responded dourly as they clinked glasses. At the moment they did so, a bright flash of light caught their attention, and both of them turned to see a couple of waiters hustling a photographer out of the dining room.

Annabeth turned to Bruce, her face a mask of dismay. "Already?"

Bruce shrugged. "Welcome to my life. You ready for this?"

_Liminality. _Annabeth took a large gulp of champagne, much to Bruce's surprise. "Does it matter?"

"Not really." He reached out and intercepted her hand as she was about to take another swig. "Slow down a little," he chuckled, pulling gently extracting the glass from her grip. "You haven't even eaten yet." He tapped her menu, and then opened his own. "Let's get some food."

"You going to order for me?" Her voice was challenging, but there was a little amusement sparkling in her eyes.

"I think an appetizer of 'incorrect assumptions', a main course of 'miscommunications', and a slice of 'humble pie' for dessert should take care of us both, don't you think?" He peeped at her from over his menu.

"A bit substantial for a first date, don't you think?" Now Annabeth was actually smiling. Good lord, she was a lightweight.

"Seriously?" Bruce put down his menu. "A truce? Suspend your disbelief and I'll suspend the jack-ass act. Just don't blow my cover, okay?"

"Why _do _you act like a jackass?"

"That's _very _substantial fare for a first date. Do you plan on telling me why you always act like a raging Amazon?"

"I accept your truce." Annabeth held up her glass, and they toasted again. "It's easier than having this discussion. Now, can we _please _order?"

After their verbal sparring had finally come to an end, the evening passed in relative peace. As the sky darkened outside, the mood became more quiet inside. Wait staff moved about, lighting candles that gradually gave a warm glow that enveloped the dining room. A string quartet began playing, gently, in the background.

At one point, Annabeth glanced up and around. "I can see why this place is so popular right now," she admitted. "It's really something. I don't know that I've ever been to a place quite this..." she paused, searching for the right word.

"Romantic?" Bruce prompted hopefully.

"_No. _I was going to say, dignified. Peaceful. Refined. Grand, even." She paused. "But maybe 'romantic' is the right word."

A moment's heavy silence followed her statement, as she took pains to look anywhere else but her table companion. She hadn't expected to enjoy herself so much...she _had _suspended disbelief, and found Bruce to be a fairly interesting dinner companion. They had stuck mainly to shop talk, planning the fundraiser. Every now and then, some fellow diners had stopped by their table, and Bruce had introduced her...in this manner, she had met two business executives, a City Councilman, a model, and a philanthropic couple. Each time, as they departed, Bruce whispered amusing commentaries on each of them, complete with salacious background material. She had found herself relaxing, laughing, being a little more talkative than normal...and then, at one point, caught herself studying Bruce's face in the glowing candlelight. There was a firm, almost glacial, set to his jaw, despite his ready smile; there were shadows under his eyes, despite the constant merry twinkle in them; he seemed friendly and accessible one moment, distant and indifferent the next.. Bruce Wayne was an attractive man, devilishly handsome, even, but his face was a study in contradictions, and for some reason, that made Annabeth very uncomfortable. The longer she knew Bruce Wayne, the less she knew how to read him.

_Good lord, _Annabeth realized with a start. _I've been spending the last few minutes contemplating Bruce Wayne's physical appeal. _She drained the last of her champagne glass. _This is not good. This is not what I signed up for._

At that moment, the atmosphere was broken as a voice boomed above them. "Wayne! Glad you're still here!"

With profound relief, Annabeth jerked her gaze away from Bruce. A man and a woman stood at their table, smiling down at them and looking terribly familiar. She frantically searched her memory—_oh, __ yes. _Bradford Winston and his fiancée, Elisa St. Marie; he was a bit of a benevolent beefcake and she was a wiry, energetic photographer who seemed to love everything that breathed.

Bruce turned to her. "I ran into Bradford today and suggested they meet us for dessert. Thought maybe it'd break the ice."

"Doesn't seem to be any ice here," Elisa smiled. "Seems like you two are getting along pretty well." She glanced around as, out of nowhere, two waiters appeared with extra chairs, and soon she and Bradford were seated at the table, adding an air of easy good humor to the gathering.

As Bruce and Bradford began discussing various inanities, Elisa turned to Annabeth, her eyes shining with excitement. "Bruce told me that you and he are an item! I'm so thrilled! When I saw you two at his party, I just _knew _you were _so _right for each other!"

Annabeth restrained the urge to suggest that Elisa check into Arkham Asylum, posthaste. She glanced over at Bruce, who had a distinct smirk on his face. He certainly hadn't wasted any time in pumping up his image. She saw that he had overheard Elisa, and was beginning to tune into their conversation.

"Errr...yeah. It was really something!" Annabeth concentrated on the coffee that the ever-obliging Macy had brought her.

"So? How'd it happen? Did you just _know, _the first time you saw each other?" Elisa was all agog, eager to hear of a love story that had turned out as well as her own. "Did you just have that instant connection?"

"Not quite." Annabeth made the decision to embrace the moment, love the liminality. "Actually..." she glanced over at Bruce, made sure he was listening. She was going to make him squirm, and at that moment, she knew that he knew, and was bracing himself. "It was quite funny, really." She paused, letting her mind conjure all sorts of absurdities, and letting everyone at the table-including Bruce, especially Bruce-wonder what was coming next. "I mean...we were just colleagues at first, you know? But he had been helping out at my job for a few weeks. You know how he is with his philanthropy..." she smiled dreamily at Bruce. "_Such _a generous man, _so _big-hearted and compassionate. Well, anyway, a few weeks back...he came limping into my office. You know how he's got that _awful _athlete's foot, right?"

Bradford guffawed; Elisa giggled. Bruce smiled uncertainly. Annabeth leaned in closer. "Well, anyway, he's gotten some sort of _infection _out there on the golf course. Some sort of...I don't know, trench foot? Well." She smiled adoringly at Bruce again. "He came limping in, and he was in _so much _pain, I had to help him. I soaked his foot, and put a little antibiotic ointment on it, and soon enough, he was as good as new. End of story, right? Except that Bruce has a bit of a...um, how should I say this? A foot _fixation?Fetish _just sounds so _dirty. _And he just fell head over heels, if you'll pardon the pun." Annabeth reached over and grabbed Bruce's enormous paw of a hand and gave it a brief squeeze. She struggled for a moment to hide her surprise—it was a surprisingly meaty, solid hand, not soft and limp as she'd assumed. She turned her attention back to finishing up her tall tale..."And that's it...took Bruce a little while to work up the nerve to ask me out. But his feet won't be denied."

She began to withdraw her hand, but suddenly, Bruce tightened his grip and smiled over at their companions. "Let's hope our ending is as happy as yours," he told Elisa and Bradford, and each of them raised their glasses in a cheerful toast to the future. Elisa and Bradford began chattering away, describing their upcoming wedding plans, but Bruce noticed that suddenly, Annabeth seemed very preoccupied.

He leaned into her and spoke quietly, so that they weren't overheard. "You alright?" His eyes were gently inquisitive.

The look that Annabeth gave him tore at his heart. "Not ever story has a happy ending, Bruce."

* * *

Not long after, the two couples emerged onto the streets of Gotham. Elisa and Bradford hailed a cab, and as they ducked into the waiting vehicle, Elisa waved cheerfully to Annabeth. "I'll see you at the fundraiser! I adore you!"

Bradford's good-natured belly-laughs could be heard down the street as the cab drove off into the night.

Bruce turned to Annabeth, and she saw that he was trying to look snnoyed, and failing miserably. "Trench foot?"

Annabeth shrugged. "When you invite the devil into your home, you're in no position to ask him to leave. Seriously, you might want to get that athlete's foot looked at. I hear it can get quite stinky."

"Oh, look at this can! It's open, and who will clean up these worms?" Bruce rolled his eyes heavenwards.

"Try Alfred. I bet he cleans up all your messes." Annabeth was searching through her coat pockets for her metro card, and missed the guilty look that passed over Bruce's face momentarily.

Bruce glanced at his watch. "It's still early...want to go to a dance club?"

"No!" Annabeth's refusal was sharper than she had intended for it to be. She remembered their truce, and softened her voice. "I don't...don't like dance clubs. Too noisy, too crowded. It's time for me to turn in."

"Really? I thought this would be early for you, still."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Annabeth demanded.

Bruce held up his hands in surrender. "Nothing...I just heard what you like to do down in the Narrows at night. Some of the clients at Safe Haven were talking about it one night..."

Annabeth cursed under her breath. "Shit. They talk too much."

"Annabeth." Bruce placed a hand on her arm and drew closer to her. He ignored her attempts to draw back. "I may not know a lot about that side of life, but I do know it's dangerous down there. Just...be careful, okay?"

"I am. But...this is just something I have to do, okay, Bruce?" Annabeth looked up and down the street, eager to escape from this conversation. "And being my pretend-boyfriend doesn't mean that you have a say in what I do."

"The thought never crossed my mind. Far be it from me to challenge your post-modern, academe-trained feminist authority." Bruce smirked. "Now, how about a good-night kiss? Something for the photographers? I think I see some over there in that doorway across the street."

"I told you, no funny stuff." A thought occurred to Annabeth. "I'll give you something better. Just follow my lead, and then hail me a cab."

She backed away from him, her eyes demurely downcast, and then held out her hand. With an instinct born to any man with any sense, Bruce took it, bent double, and placed a feather-soft kiss on the back of her hand, which she had been expecting. But before she could withdraw, he had swiftly, firmly turned her hand over and placed another kiss, even softer, on her open palm.

For one brief moment, for both of them, all of Gotham ceased to exist. Bruce didn't move, but allowed himself to feel the softness of her hand against his lips, and Annabeth was absolutely frozen. She closed her eyes for a moment, unprepared for the shot of electricity that surged through her body. Her breath caught in her throat.

When he straightened up, he expected to see Annabeth attempting to kill him with her eyes. But he wasn't expecting the look of confusion, the brief second of panic, that crossed her features before that all-too-familiar poker face slid into place.

"Funny stuff, Mr. Wayne," she reminded him. "Be a good boy or you won't get another date."

Silently, he nodded, and then hailed her a cab. He helped her in, and then was gone before the cab had pulled away from the curb.

* * *

Another night in the Narrows—it could be any night, at almost any time of the year; in a place like this, where poverty, misery, and crime were par for the course, time ceased to matter, except that it dragged so much. But it was not any night for Annabeth; she had the luxury of leaving the Narrows any time she liked, and so had other ways of marking the passage of time.

It was hard to believe that Annabeth had just come from the Top of Gotham. It was actually rather poetic, in an obvious sort of way. She had gone from the top of the heap and descended to the bottom...and while she belonged in neither place now, she knew where she felt more familiar.

As Annabeth made her way through the poorly-lit streets, her eyes darting this way and that, her ears ever alert, she reflected on the misery around her...and, if she were honest, within her. Why else did she gravitate here, night after night? It was a fascination, a _sick _fascination, some thought. But she answered the call, night after night. Engrossed as she was in her angst, however, Annabeth failed to notice she was being watched and followed, by an ever-vigilant protector who was as fascinated with her as she was with the darkness around and within her.

More and more, the Batman was beginning to realize how similar he and Annabeth were.

Annabeth caught sight of a familiar group of women ahead, at the corner of Stateside and Lincoln. She hurried over, making a beeline for one of the youngest ones, Ruby. She was fifteen, and still relatively new, and didn't seem to mind Annabeth's occasional visits.

"Ruby!" Annabeth stopped short as Ruby turned around and regarded her through a swollen face and a distended eye. "Jesus, Ruby, what happened?"

Ruby shook her head, glancing nervously at some of the other prostitutes.

"Who's your pimp? Reggie? Did he do this to you?" Annabeth began looking around. "Where's Reggie? I thought he had more sense than that! Are you okay?"

Ruby spoke quickly. "Reggie's gone. And you need to get gone."

"What's going on? Who did this to you?"

One of the other prostitutes spoke up. "You heard her. Getcher ass outta here."

"_Please, _Annabeth." Ruby pleaded. "Get out of here. And stay away. You're not safe here. People have been asking about you."

"About me?" Annabeth was confused. "So what? It doesn't matter. Ruby, you're hurt. Let me help you!"

"No!" Ruby backed away. "Stay away from me!" There was fear in her voice, abject terror. From where he stood in the shadows, fifteen feet away, the Batman could see and hear it perfectly. It was more than the fear of a fifteen-year-old kid, old before her time and in over her head. It was the fear of a girl who was scared for her life.

Annabeth held out a business card. "Please, take this. It's my contact information. Take it, or give it to anyone who'll listen."

Ruby smacked them out of her hand, and the crowd watched as they scattered into the stagnant gutter- water. "No one's going to listen, Annabeth. You can't help us. Now get out of here! _Please."_

Long ago, the Batman had learned that a true warrior knew when to concede the battle, and when to momentarily withdraw and regroup. Annabeth was a tried and true warrior, he saw that night, and he learned that she knew when to make a tactical retreat. She was as much of a warrior as he had ever been.

Annabeth nodded, slowly, taking in the fear and hostility of the women around her, and began to back away. "I'm always willing to help," she told them softly. "Anytime."

She disappeared into the night, oblivious to her silent guardian, still following in the shadows.

Little by little, the tension left the prostitutes, and they began to re-focus on the business at hand. And Annabeth's business cards remained in the gutter, the filthy water soiling the pristine cardstock and bleeding the ink until gradually, Annabeth's name and contact information were completely washed away.


	13. Chapter 13

Seduce the Moon was a staple on the Gotham City night scene, and had been for close to five years. This was, in and of itself, fairly remarkable, given that most night clubs enjoyed the title of most social hotspot for six months, tops, after inception. However, what made its success less remarkable was the somewhat off-putting fact that Jones le Blanc and the Arrows frequented it. Having the patronage of a mob boss certainly guaranteed at least a reasonable amount of success, which was one of the reasons for the club's consistent performance, but since Jones le Blanc's sudden rise to power, business at the nightclub had risen correspondingly. Its once-modest success had exploded into the fame and popularity that comes with being a very "now" place.

Of course, for Jones le Blanc and his friends, there was always space and hospitality, and the current night was no different. He, Donzetti, Boy-o, a few other cronies, and a decent amount of female companions were immediately placed at one of the best tables. They had a perfect view of the dance floor, and they were far enough removed from the speakers to actually hear each other.

Not that Trinity particularly cared to hear what everyone around her was saying.

She sat there, immediately to the left of Donzetti, slowly sipping on her wine and enduring Donzetti's hand resting on her leg, working its sweaty, fatty way up her knee. She didn't react, other than to throw a suggestive smile towards him every now and then. She leaned in to the crowd of women at the table, pretending to listen to their depressing inanities as she actually tried to listen to the conversation that the men were having. Trinity counted that as one talent of many in her vast repertoire—she had some decent acting skills, and had developed the ability to handle multiple conversations at once, and hear what she was not intended to. Not that she had ever used the information she gleaned...it was just nice to _know. _Knowledge was power.

Of course, knowledge _could _be deadly. And curiosity killed the cat.

"Have you been to that new restaurant in mid-town? The French-Cajun place?" asked one of the other women, a very bosom-y brunette.

"Their dress code is _way _too casual," responded a second woman. What was her name? Jackie? Gigi?

"...don't see why we had to get rid of her..." Donzetti was grousing. "Still brought in good business."

"...don't care, why should you?" Jones tossed back the last of his Glenfidditch and motioned for the waitress, the dull gold of his signet ring gleaming in the strobe lights. "...knew too much. Found out she had tried to go to the cops..."

"...I mean, I actually _saw _some woman there in _jeans. _Not designer!" Jackie/Gigi was genuinely outraged.

Donzetti worked his hand up higher. Trinity rested her head against his shoulder and nuzzled into his neck. Thank goodness she was concentrating so hard on all the talk, otherwise she may have vomited. This was the first time she had ever experienced a client that she neither liked nor respected in some fashion, and it was not a pleasant situation. She had never felt degraded...but then, she had never felt as threatened as she had when she went to the Arrows.

"What do you want to drink, baby?" Donzetti, mercifully, stopped pawing her for a moment.

"Just another glass of wine," she murmured, nuzzling him again and praying that he would resume his conversation with Jones, if only so she wouldn't have to listen to the women, who had moved onto an intense discussion of the relative merits and drawbacks of private gyms versus private trainers.

"Anyway, she wasn't _that _good for business. Not many men liked going after my leftovers." Jones was preoccupied, and clearly wanted to change the subject. "I spoke with my associate today. He's in. And he's finding another couple of investors."

Donzetti grinned. "Very good. I am assuming these are well-connected people? It wouldn't do to bring in just anyone. We need leverage, in case things go wrong."

The look that Jones gave his loyal friend was one of both warning and outrage. "Why should things go wrong? We've got it under control. It's going to be hard to tie anything back to us, at least until we bring the goods over."

"I'm just sayin'," Donzetti shrugged, and the gesture looked ludicrous on his bulky frame, "is you should trust me with this shit. '_Your associates_'? Please. I deserve to know who they are. I've worked with you long enough, man."

He had a point, Jones knew. And he knew how to reward loyalty, and he knew how to treat those closest to him. He leaned in and murmured a name. Trinity was straining to hear it, but _dammit, _those hens chose that moment to break out in a cackle of laughter, and all she could hear were general sounds. Beth Herzel? No, not a woman. But what was the damned name? She had missed it. Trinity decided to turn her attention back to the women for a moment, but all the while, she remained silent, concentrating, struggling to hear everything the men were saying, even as the cackles and vapid chatter of the women threatened to drown out the more important conversation_._

"...taking care of the stragglers, now." Donzetti and Jones had moved on to the next subject, and Trinity noticed Boy-o leaning in, suddenly interested and included in the conversation. "The rest of the women are more easily...persuaded." He paused as a waitress approached with a drink-laden tray and carefully distributed the drinks. He passed the wine glass to Trinity, barely glancing at her, but deliberately brushed her breast as he retracted his hand. "Boy-o has been very good about bringing in more recruits. It's amazing how quickly we gained control over the market..."

Trinity was a smart woman—not just self-educated, but also in possession of common sense, intuition, and a logical and observant mind. And as she listened to the men talk, a horrible realization struck her: the murders, the attacks on the sex-industry workers...all of it had been orchestrated by the Arrows. She, and probably thousands more like her, were being manipulated into working for Jones le Blanc. Trinity knew it with unshakable certainty; she knew that she had been bullied, threatened, manipulated into giving up her life of freedom and independence to be a whore for the Arrows.

She took a sip of her wine, and as she set down the glass, she saw her shapely, perfectly-manicured hands were trembling. Trembling with what? Shock? Outrage? Fear? Surreptitiously, she glanced around the table, trying to see if any of her companions had noticed anything different. The women were still engrossed in their conversation, trying to exclude her-no doubt they had picked up on her scorn; no matter how shallow people could be, they knew when they were despised. Donzetti and Jones were still talking, although once more they had moved on to a different topic, possibly something more humorous, as they were both laughing with the smugness of men who hold all the power. Where was Boy-o? Ah. There he was, now standing by the table, surveying the crowds...possibly trying to locate other attractive women, maybe "recruit" them for "service" to the Arrows.

Anger. Yes, that was what she was feeling. She was furious. Her personality, her beauty, her sexual prowess, her intellect, her power, her marketable services, and they _had taken it all away from her. _They had taken away her independence. No, not correct. She had given it all to them. Trinity was as angry with herself as she was with them. And the worst part of it all was that she had no idea what to do.

So intent was Trinity on processing these emotions and her conclusions, she didn't notice that Donzetti had nodded at Boy-o, who slipped quietly away from the scene.

The night marched on, and Trinity tried not to think of all the things she would rather be doing. She tried to calm her anger, tried to think clearly, tried not to strangle the woman nearest to her, tried not to stab Donzetti in the eyes with an old swizzle stick that lay, abandoned, on the table. She smilingly endured his pawing; made casual and gently flirting conversation with both Jones and Donzetti, and all the while, a very angry, loud version of herself was hopping mad in her head, howling with rage.

At one point, Donzetti paused in his tender attentions and started actually talking, seriously, to her. "Have you thought any more about my offer?"

_His offer._ The screaming rage died down in Trinity's head, and was replaced by sheer panic. He had been quite taken with her, and had been asking for her companionship more and more. A couple of weeks, and the damned fool was besotted, and he wanted her as his mistress. Only his.

Trinity was repulsed. And she was in a very difficult position—she knew that rejecting him was out of the question. She had willingly stepped into the jaws of the wolf, and it was too late to get out. No matter that she had simply wanted some protection, no matter that she hadn't counted on Donzetti finding her so alluring. She was in between a rock and a hard place-or, rather, a rock and a fat place.

"It would be _very _nice for you," he said, giving her knee a squeeze. "You wouldn't have to work anymore."

She gave him one of her most dazzling smiles. "But I would be giving up my income, my independence."

Donzetti smiled back. "I'd support you. I'd protect you. You wouldn't want for anything. Money, designer clothes, good restaurants...all the loving you could handle.

"But I'd be _totally dependent _on you." Trinity cast down her eyes sadly; she had to play this just right. "I thought that's what you _liked _about me-my independence."

Suddenly, Donzetti's doting mood shattered. "You call what you do '_independence'? _You're a whore."

Trinity was getting riled up now. "I sell my time and my body and my talents. All of these are my assets, my marketable skills. One of my clients is a prestitgious surgeon—he sells his time and his skills at saving lives. Another client-a very wealthy inventor. He sells his time and his creative brains. And another client, a construction company owner who worked his way up from the bottom-he sold his time and his physical strength to get to where he is today. These men sell their time and talents and sometimes their physical attributes-_so how is what I do any different?" _She paused to catch her breath, and then angrily took Donzetti's glass of whatever he was drinking and took a hefty gulp. "The way I look at it, we're all whores."

Donzetti stared at her for a moment, and Trinity instantly mastered her if she had royally pissed him off? What would he do? It occurred to her then that this was how battered women must feel...always wondering if they were saying or doing something that would set their men off. This thought process was interrupted, however, when Donzetti burst out laughing.

"You're something else, you know that? A total bitch. I like that." He actually took her hand, gave it a squeeze. "I like _you. _And I want you to be safe."

"Safe?" He had caught Trinity's attention.

Donzetti shrugged. "Things are crazy out there. Your job's a tough line of work. All it takes is one crazy man, follows you back to your place, he can screw you up _bad." _His hand was encircling her wrist now, the grip tightening. "I just want you to be safe. All sorts of women get hurt doing what you do. Just think about it a little more, okay?"

Suddenly, Jones leaned over, interjecting himself into the conversation. "Sweetie," he said, addressing Trinity. "I think that's your phone going off." He gestured to the Blackberry she had set down on the table earlier that night. It was vibrating and flashing, demanding Trinity's attention. "Looks like a text message." He returned to his drink and ignored Trinity as she idly picked up the phone and began reading the message-but he did glance over at Donzetti, who was staring intently at Trinity.

A moment later, she stood up, her face ashen. "I have to go."

"Everything alright?" Donzetti had moved onto ogling a waitress, but he glanced over at his companion. "What happened?"

She was struggling into her coat. "A friend. She's been hurt, and she's at the hospital. I need to go to her."

"See what I mean?" Donzetti smirked, and then turned away.

* * *

At midnight, there were few people in the hospital cafeteria. It became a bare-bones outfit in the wee hours, offering only coffee and stale Danish to the few who bothered to seek refuge there. Most visitors went home by 9 PM, and most doctors had enough sense to stay away.

The nurses, however, were another story.

Annabeth and Janey were there now, sequestered in one of the shabby booths, each of them nursing a mug of coffee. Annabeth's shift was over, and Janey was on her break-she did the graveyard shift some nights, and she would not be done until four in the morning.

That didn't seem to faze her in the slightest now; she sat in the booth, energetic and cheerful as always; her eyes sparkling with laughter as she described to Annabeth her latest argument with Jason.

"...and I told him, 'if you think you're not having sex with me just because you threw out your back, you clearly don't know what happened to my last boyfriend!'"

Annabeth cocked her head. "I don't think you told me—what happened to your last boyfriend?"

"Oh." Janey had the decency to look slightly abashed. "He actually threw out his back _during _sex. But he didn't stop, and so he raised my expectations. Poor Jason. Hard to top that."

Annabeth groaned. "You're insatiable."

"Pffft." Janey blew on her coffee. "I'm making up for you. Only so much sex in the world, and I'll take what you're not having." She gave Annabeth a saucy look. "Speaking of, how are things with you and your boyfriend? Done the deed yet?"

"There will be no _deed. _And he's not my boyfriend. It's a business arrangement." Annabeth did not want to be having this discussion, but she suspected Janey would not be deterred.

"Why _wouldn't _you?" Janey shook her head in disbelief. "Jesus, Annabeth, you don't have to be a nun. Just have some fun!"

"I'm not a nun!" Annabeth protested. "I have sex. I enjoy sex. I just...have other focuses."

"Annabeth, the last time you had sex, there was a different president in office. Christ, girl, clean up the cobwebs!"

"Okay, let's be clear. The same president was in office. It's only been three years." Annabeth realized, as soon as she said it, how absurd it sounded.

"Oh! _Only _three years. Let me guess-Robbie?" Janey was still shaking her head. "You haven't slept with anyone since you broke up with _Robbie?"_

"Different priorities," Annabeth grunted. "Can we _please _change the subject?"

"I'm just saying." Her best friend was determined to drive the point home. "You're _seeing _Bruce Wayne, whether or not you admit it. You're single. He's single. Why not have a little fun? Every business arrangement has benefits." She smiled, likely imagining Bruce Wayne's attributes. "I bet he's a _stallion—"_

"Janey!" Annabeth covered her ears. "Please! I work with this man!"

"I bet he'd sire some really beautiful babies."

The look that Annabeth shot her was so pained that Janey immediately snapped her mouth shut. "I'm sorry...I wasn't thinking."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the silence of two friends who have known and loved each other through years of life and pain. Annabeth sipped at her coffee, and as a peace offering, said, "It's not that kind of business arrangement. And we're not interested in each other. It's just a game for him."

"A game?" Janey snorted. "Right. You told me what he did after that dinner the other night. Kissing your hand like that? That's _hot._And it's not how a guy acts if you're just friends. Trust me on this."

"Oh, wonderful. I have the opportunity of a lifetime—to become another notch on a billionaire's headboard. You know how I am about sex, Janey. It's not a casual thing to me, and I don't sleep around. I'm not going to be Bruce Wayne's next conquest." Annabeth couldn't drink any more of the coffee; it had grown cold and now tasted awful. "Besides, there's something weird about him."

"Weird?" Now Janey was really intrigued. "Well...he willingly takes the crap you heap on him. That _is _a little odd."

"That's just what I mean!" Annabeth exclaimed. "Why the hell is he hanging out with me? Yeah, yeah, I know, it's good for his image. But since when does that matter? Since when do billionaire_s care _what the public thinks about them?" She paused, remembering a dozen times Bruce had thrown her off, taken her by surprise, challenged her assumptions. "He's completely mercurial. One minute he doesn't take anything seriously, the next he'll just lapse into this morose silence and stare off into the distance, and then he'll snap out of it and start asking really serious questions. I have no idea what goes on in his head."

"Sounds like a typical man," Janey chuckled. "Maybe if you'd sleep with more of 'em, you'd realize it, too."

"No!" Annabeth was in full-swing; this had been bothering her for a while. "He plays dumb with so many people, but he's smart. Or at least not completely stupid. And one second he'll be so absorbed in his own instant gratification, the next he's completely present and attentive." Now she was thinking of dozens of tiny acts of kindness and consideration she had seen him commit. "He's incredibly kind to the clients...he's always talking shop with Donna, he _knows _so much about what we do now. He's been doing his own research, I can tell."

"How does this make him anything _but _the perfect man for you?" Janey was liking him more and more. "Yet you hate him. He's handsome, he's philanthropic, he's kind-hearted, he believes in what you do, he flirts with you-christ, what an asshole!I have to kill him now."

"Janey, _please. _Be serious. It's just _weird. _I think...I think he might be bipolar, or something."

"'Bipolar or something?'" Janey mocked. "What the hell did you do in grad school? _Are you a psychologist or not?"_

"I try not to use my education to diagnose friends."

"FRIENDS!" Janey smacked the table. "Ah-ha! So you _do_l ike him."

"I don't _hate _him. I guess he is a friend. But...it's just that...he just kind of...unnerves me." This was hard for Annabeth to admit. "He's got issues. That much, I know. And he's not a happy person."

"Wow." Janey was astounded. "He really_is _the perfect man for you." She slurped down the rest of her coffee and set the cup on her saucer with a loud _clink. _"I think he likes you. I know, I know, I've never met the man, but from the way you describe him, I think there's something there. At least with him. Just tell me this." Janey stared at Annabeth. "I'm your best friend, so don't lie. How do you feel about him?"

As Janey watched, Annabeth underwent a struggle within herself. Her face was impassive as always, the bland, professional mask she wore for patients and clients. Once or twice, she almost said something, and then caught herself. When she finally spoke, she did with such a low voice that Janey had to lean forward to hear what she said.

"I think...I could like him. There's something...I don't know, I feel a very primal pull when I'm around him...but a repulsion too."

"That's your fear, there." Janey didn't need a psychology degree to see that. "You're scared."

"Yes, I am." Annabeth agreed. "And fear is a gift. It keeps me safe. So I act disinterested when I'm around him, and I think I fool him. But I do find him intriguing. And that kiss-" Annabeth stopped and closed her eyes._"Goddamn you, _Janey. Leave me in peace. Denial works very well for me. I don't like him. Nope. Just a friend and colleague"

"Problem with denial is that it keeps you stagnated." Janey leaned over. "Are you going to have the rest of your coffee?"

"You don't need any more anyway, it's nasty now." Annabeth moved the cup and saucer out of her reach. "What do you mean 'stagnated'?"

"I mean you're stuck in place. You've held yourself back. You're emotionally damaged and stunted, and some of it by your own choice and actions. Perhaps a bit of a fuck-wit, really." Janey nodded. "Yup. Yes, indeed. I've seen you do this, year after year."

"Oh, _thank you. _Very much!" Annabeth couldn't be insulted; Janey knew her too well. 'But really, I don't like him. Not like that. It's just passing lust. A hormonal thing."

"I wouldn't worry about it. You're making some progress." Janey paused before delivering her killing stroke. "After all, we just spent the last fifteen minutes talking about a man that you don't like. I must have been barking up the wrong tree. I always spend that much time thinking about men that I don't like. Silly me!"

"You are," Annabeth told her, "A complete and total asshole."

"And you love me." Janey stood up and headed back to the cashier. "I'm going for more coffee."

"Make sure it's decaf!" Annabeth called to her retreating back.

A couple of other nurses leisurely ambled their way into the cafeteria-Sophie and Elia, two of the other emergency room nurses. They caught sight of Annabeth and waved as they got their coffee, and a moment later, they seated themselves in herbooth. Annabeth smiled at them, almost sadly—they were both _so young, _only twenty-three, cute, happy, hopeful. She had been that age, once, too, but never like that. At twenty-three she had already possessed the scars, physical and emotional, of someone twice her age, and she was never _happy. _Christ, how were people happy? What was it like? _What dumbass questions._

"How was your night?" Sophie asked as Elia tugged her blonde ponytail.

"Not too bad. We had a couple of sexual assaults...but we got good evidence off of both of them, and the girls knew the attackers." Annabeth allowed herself, at least, that small triumph. "I think they'll both testify."

"How were they?" Janey had rejoined them, clutching another cup of coffee.

Annabeth frowned, remembering. "The one girl was really young...fourteen. She was pretty hysterical at first...pretty bad injuries, too. The other one was a bit older, maybe college-age. It was her boyfriend."

"Christ." Elia was disgusted. "What the hell is wrong with people? What ever happened to wanting a willing partner?" She shuddered. "Those poor girls."

Stacy didn't even like to think about it, and was eager to change the subject. "I actually referred a couple of women to you tonight, Annabeth. Did they get in touch with you?"

"No...not yet." Effortlessly, Annabeth slipped into her professional mode. "What was wrong with them?"

"One of them was beaten up really badly. Concussion, multiple lacerations, a couple of missing teeth. She wasn't talking when I asked her who did it to her." Stacy shook her her, completely uncomprehending of the stance some women took. "She called a friend, who joined her in the ER. Real classy woman-very forceful. I just gave 'em each your card, said that you might be able to help them out, could put them in touch with the police if they changed their minds, or help with an identity change. They didn't seem impressed."

"But you have to try," Annabeth agreed. "Maybe they'll call."

Stacy shrugged. "Not sure. In all honesty...I kind of got the impression that they were very well-paid ladies of the night."

"Ladies of the night?" Elia giggled, then looked guilty. "You sound like a Victorian. They were _hookers_, it sounds like."

"No, there's a difference," Janey chipped in. "Right, Annabeth?"

"Essentially, yes. But for me, the bottom line is usually the same." Annabeth saw the two younger women were confused, and extrapolated. "Doesn't matter if you're a pricey escort or a prostitute selling blowjobs for ten bucks a head. Who really _chooses _that profession? Very few. There's some of the escorts that do like it, and that's great, but who really has a chance like that? The majority are girls who were abused and ran away from home...sometimes they're coerced into it. But it's never a great situation." She glanced at her watch. "It's nearly one in the morning. I've got to get home."

"Yeah, time for me to get back to work, too." Janey hastily gulped down the rest of her coffee. "Annabeth...be sure you keep an eye on that _hormonal _thing. Wouldn't want it to get out of hand."

* * *

Annabeth bade good-bye to her companions, and wearily made her way out of the hospital. The nights she worked her second job as a Trauma Counselor were always draining, but too, incredibly gratifying, in a way that not even Safe Haven was. Sometimes she was the first lifeline the girls and women had, sometimes she was the first truly sympathetic face they saw. She liked being that lifeline, even if it killed a little bit of her each time.

Gotham General was right on the metroline, so it took her no time at all to make her way to the underground station. At this time of night, the entire station was deserted, but Annabeth did not relax her guard. Her pepper gas was in one coat pocket, her completely useless swiss-Army knife in the other-she hadn't gotten around to replace the switchblade that she lost the night she had encountered the Batman in the Narrows. She was constantly vigilant, glancing right and left and occasionally backwards to make sure no one was lurking about with nefarious intent. Perhaps it was her caution that enabled her to catch a glimpse of the hulking, black-clad figure who lurked in the shadows before he had a chance to approach.

"Well." Annabeth actually sauntered over to him. "It's been a while."

He didn't answer.

"You don't call me. Not even an email. It's like you wanted to forget our nocturnal encounters." She crossed her arms and glared at him. "What's a girl to think? You do that with all the ladies? We had such a _good time _together."

His response took her by surprise. "How's Jessie?"

"Jessie?" For a moment, Annabeth was stumped. "Oh, Jessie. The girl you helped me with. Since when does it matter to you?"

"Everything matters."

He stared at her through his cowl; his mouth set in a grim line. She drew closer and glared at him for a moment before answering. "She's fine. In rehab."

A loaded silence stretched out between them as they continued to engage in a staring contest. Finally, the Batman relented. "Someone's targeting the prostitutes."

Annabeth didn't bother to hide her surprise. "Shit. I don't even want to know how you do that." She leaned against the nearest wall, and tilted her head upwards towards the inky sky. "How many?"

"At least fifty in the past ten days."

"Not murders? I would have thought that would have made it on the news."

"No murders, not anymore. Just violent beatings." His voice grew rougher as he imparted the information, and as she watched, the creepy eyes behind the cowl narrowed. Jesus, he was one scary sonofabitch. Annabeth slowly began to back away as she continued the conversation.

"Who's doing it?" Two steps, shuffled backwards.

He advanced a little. "I don't know yet. Why do they want to?"

"A sick thrill, maybe. But on this scale—there's got to be a reason behind it. Probably someone's trying to coerce them-a gorilla pimp might be trying to get a corner on the market."

"A gorilla pimp?"

"Please tell me you're not that ignorant. A gorilla pimp is a pimp who's violent, gets his prostitutes to submit through abuse." Annabeth stepped back again, and a shaft of weak light illuminated her face, revealing the tiny lines and shadows. "Gotham's got some very creative gorillas. You ever hear of a pimp stick? No?" She shook her head. "Guess I should be reassured you don't know about that kind of thing.

He stepped forward again.

"I think you need to stay right there," Annabeth told him, her voice sharp and commanding. "I'm guessing you just want information. You don't need to intimidate me."

"Doesn't look like I have to try." He stepped back, however, and noted a small bit of the tension leave Annabeth's body. "I do need information, which you've given me. I might need more, later."

"Making a date for the future? Since when do I get that professional courtesy?"

"Since we're colleagues. One warrior to another." He looked down at her, her tiny frame and spirited eyes radiating all fierceness and fury and controlled fear, and before he could change his mind, he extended his gloved hand.

Annabeth looked down; he was offering her a metallic...bat?

Slowly, she reached out and took it, her fingertips brushing against the warm kevlar for a moment before her fingers closed around the batarang. "Impressive. I love dust-collectors."

For a fraction of a second, that frightening mouth tugged upwards into a smirk before it settled into its normal state of impassivity. Annabeth looked at the batarang in her hand and debated briefly with herself before she looked up again. "I...uhhh...thank you. For helping me with Jessie. That could have been a bad situation."

"Be careful." He was slipping into the shadows. "The Narrows are dangerous right now."

"I know," she admitted. "I'm thinking about changing...venues." She shivered a little. "I just don't know how _not _to go there and try to help."

He bowed his head for a moment. "I know the feeling."

From the far end of the station the metro train began to approach, its dull roar growing louder. Annabeth glanced over towards the platform, and then back to her companion. But he was gone, had already disappeared back into the shadows of the station and probably his soul. Annabeth sighed and shrugged and started to hurry to the platform, and it wasn't until she sat down o the train that she noticed that she had been gripping the batarang so tightly that the sharp tips of the wings had broken her skin of her palm.

A few drops of blood fell onto the dirty floor. Annabeth ignored them, and the stinging on her palm, and allowed herself to finally rest.


	14. Chapter 14

"Monday?"

"I volunteer at the Y."

"Tuesday?"

"My shift at the hospital."

"Wednesday?"

"Can't."

"Thursday?"

"Another shift at the hospital."

"For the love of Gotham, Annabeth! Would you _cooperate?"_

Bruce had arrived at Safe Haven that Friday morning, intent on negotiating a second "date" with Annabeth. He certainly had had a nice enough time on the first one, and was quite keen to pursue the chance for a follow-up encounter. Despite his social life, there seemed to be plenty of time to spare for his more serious nocturnal commitments...so what was the harm in pursuing some _actually enjoyable _female company? He was willing, even surprisingly eager, and while he was no great expert when it came to women and their inscrutable ways, he strongly suspected that Annabeth hadn't minded his parting gesture at dinner earlier that week. At least, she hadn't tried to castrate him, and after he saw that strange look in her eyes, it had haunted him...he had hope.

_Hope for what, exactly?_

He hadn't gotten that far. And given his current difficulties in securing Annabeth's time and interest, he might not get any further. Mind-bogglingly, she was completely uninterested in Round Two.

Annabeth peered at Bruce from over the top of her reading glasses. "I'm being perfectly cooperative. It's not _my _fault our schedules don't mesh." She resumed reading through her files and ignoring the man in front of her. Bruce swore he could see a tiny smile playing at the corner of her lips. Still, he hadn't givem up.

"Annabeth." Something in Bruce's voice made her look up, and she actually cringed at the stormy look on his face. "I would like very much to see you at some point. Do I have to bring Donna into this?"

"You little _rat!" _She hissed at him, her eyes widening in disbelief. "You really would, wouldn't you?"

"I have no qualms about telling on you." He smirked. "You practically made a promise. Friends don't break promises."

"Bruce." Annabeth's expression softened just a fractionl. "I lead a complicated life. I have a lot of commitments. It's not really that easy for me to just cut out of them. Not even for devilishly-handsome billionaires."

Bruce cocked his head, gave what he hoped was his most sweet and beguiling smile. "I'm devilishly handsome, huh?"

"Devilish, anyway." Annabeth began searching around her desk, lifting stacks of papers, shifting files. "Where the hell did my coffee...oh." With a smile that cost her much from her begrudging heart, she accepted the mug that Bruce passed to her. "I'm just saying, I've got a lot of commitments. A lot of people leaning on me. It's hard to have a social life when I barely have enough time for my professional commitments."

She watched as he began pacing the tiny, overcrowded space that was her office. "Bruce? What's _bothering _you? You're being a spaz."

He turned back to her, his chiseled face a mask of mild irritation. "No one published anything about us."

Annabeth nearly spat out her coffee. "_That's _what's bothering you? No one wrote about your date with an average woman? They didn't publish our picture in the tabloids?"

"Oh, they published it alright, in the society pages. 'Bruce Wayne and dinner companion enjoy a night on the town.' They may as well have written, 'Bruce Wayne's life is a social graveyard.' It's practically the kiss of death!" He began pacing again.

"Bruce, _chill out." _Annabeth had adopted her bossy, I'll-feed-your-testicles-to-the-emus voice, and it was enough to make him stop his annoying pacing, at least. It was making her extremely nervous. "Stop being a ninny. What the hell does it matter what the tabloids say?"

"It's an investment," Bruce snapped, and flopped down into the chair across from Annabeth. "You took the time out to go to dinner with me, presumably you'll do it again—if we ever find you the cure for being a neurotic workaholic—and then there's _nothing. _No coverage, practically.What was the point? My image is as tarnished as ever. "

"Mmmm. Which is just the way you like it." Annabeth had spread her newspaper open and begun scanning the headlines.

"What? I _don't _like it!" Bruce knew his protest was a lie. After all, he had spent enough time and effort in willingly cultivating the arrogant-billionaire-dumbass image. "And can you please just have a conversation with me without doing ten things at once! You don't have to be the dominatrix of multi-tasking every damned minute!"

Slowly, deliberately, Annabeth lifted her head and fixed Bruce with an intense stare. After a very tense moment, "Sure," she said, slowly folding the newspaper. His unusual moodiness was disturbing, to say the least, and as she watched, he sank down deeper into his chair, staring off into nothing, his eyes darkening to almost a bitter black as he contemplated god only knew what. "Bruce."

He didn't acknowledge her. All of a sudden, he was exhausted, and quite simply fed up. All of the late nights in Gotham, fighting the hydra that was crime in this damned city, and all for what? For every person he helped or rescued, for every crime that he prevented, there were ten more in a part of the city where he wasn't at. All of the social scenes he frequented, and he had no friends. None of it mattered; to the world, he was a prize idiot, worthy of only amused condescension and occasional scorn. He had deliberately and willingly chosen to disconnect from any support network; he had made the decision, for better or for worse, to operate alone. He could count only two or three people that he trusted-Alfred, Gordon, and Lucius, and Lucius had abandoned him, and Gordon didn't even know who he truly was. And what of Annabeth, fierce and strangely beautiful and relentless in her own crusade? Where did she fall in all of this? What of this enigma who sat before him now, oblivious to the real him?

Ah. But that was the essential question—who was the _real _him? Not Brucie, not Batman. Someone in between. 'Bruce' was the man he might have grown into had life worked differently, had the world made sense, had justice and goodness and right prevailed. And Annabeth, unknowingly, coaxed him, day by day, into that person. At times, he wanted to fall upon his knees and thank her for helping him restore this part of him that he had thought long dead; at other times, he felt certain he could cheerfully strangle her for provoking all of this within him. Life was so much easier before that she-devil had stormed into his life-

-Well, to be fair, he had really stormed into hers. Dammit, he couldn't even blame her for that.

_"Bruce." _Annabeth's voice, now tinged slightly with exasperation, penetrated his moroseness. "Come on. Talk to me. What the hell is going on? You look like Alfred packed an anchovy sandwich in your lunch bag. What's it going to take to cheer you up? Maybe a tryst on your penthouse rooftop? A date with Natascha?"

"I don't _want _a date with _Natascha." _Bruce spat out the words, and Annabeth wisely fell silent for a moment. She studied him, taking in his darkened eyes, his tense jaw, and his massive hands gripping the armrests. Something was bothering him, she could tell, and for once, she relented.

"You got plans tonight?"

He glanced over at Annabeth, who quickly took refuge behind the newspaper again. Nonetheless, her tone had been too casual, suggesting that there was more riding on her question than she wanted to admit.

"It's Friday night." Bruce rolled his eyes. "Who doesn't have plans on Friday night? I've got an invitation to an opera...a new gallery opening...there are three restaurants that are debuting tonight. Nothing too special." He paused. "I hadn't committed to anything yet...any reason?" His voice was casual, too.

Annabeth lowered the paper, and in one of the rare moments where she abandoned her front of impassivity, Bruce could see her thinking hard and seriously considering something. "What if...Bruce, what if it's not who you're with, but where you're going?"

"I don't follow." He didn't, actually. But he had a strong suspicion that she was going to pull something very unexpected out of her hat.

"Of course you don't. That's not new. You going to the trendiest new restaurant or night spot, and acting in a normal way with a normal woman...that's _not _news. Not tabloid news anyway." Annabeth began rooting about on her desk, shifting the omnipresent stack of papers and piles. "What if we gave them something new...something completely different? What if you were to go _slumming _tonight? Ahh!" Annabeth found what she was looking for, and pulled a glossy brochure from the depths of her excess paperwork. "Here it is...let's see...oh, good. It _is _tonight."

She passed Bruce the brochure. "It's the monthly program of events from the central branch of the Gotham Library," she told him, and watched as he began to tentatively flip the pages. "There's a classical concert in their auditorium tonight, at five. I have to staff Safe Haven tonight, but I was thinking of popping over there beforehand."

Bruce looked back up at her. "A classical concert...at a public library?" His tone was disbelieving, but to his credit, he hadn't completely discounted the idea. "They have concerts at the library?"

"The public library, Bruce. It's the peoples' university. And unlike the silly performances you go to, the tickets to which I am willing to bet cost more than my monthly salary, and where _nobody _pays any attention to the music, these performances are _free. _And people actually go to listen." Annabeth had started to get indignant, and her eyes were beginning to gleam ominously. "I'm not too good to go to it, so why the hell should you be? Besides, you chose where we went last time. Now it's _my _turn."

He held up his hands, a gesture of innocence. "I didn't say _no_, Annabeth. It's just a little different." Actually, the idea quite intrigued him, and also...shamed him a little. He knew better than anyone how he held himself above and apart from the teeming masses, both as "Brucie" and as the Batman. Alfred had scolded him before for his unconscious sense of superiority, and it was something of which he became more aware, the more time he spent with Annabeth. "What time should I pick you up?"

"Pick me up?" Annabeth frowned. "No, you can meet me there."

"No." His voice was firm and even a little sharp; Annabeth looked at him in some surprise. "I'll pick you up. It might get us noticed more than if we were to meet. Maybe I can get someone over at Wayne Enterprises to tip off the press..."

"No need. There'll probably be a few reporters and photographers there...the performers are usually minor celebrities in the classical music world. Really, I don't mind meeting you there."

"A gentleman always provides transportation on a date," Bruce told her, the smugness audible in his voice.

"Yeah? Is that why I arrived alone and waited half an hour for you at the Top of Gotham?"

"I never said I was a gentleman. I just _implied _it." Suddenly, he gave her the hollow grin that she had come to dread; it was the smile of the Prince of Gotham, who couldn't carry a serious conversation in a bucket. Frankly, it was beginning to piss her off.

"Bruce." Annabeth stood up and came over to his side of the desk, where she sat in the chair next to his. Her posture was ramrod-stiff, and she looked alarmingly serious...even for her. "There's something I need to tell you."

Suddenly, the atmosphere felt very close. Suffocating, almost-Bruce was having a hard time breathing. Good god, what was she going to do now?

She leaned in, her eyes never leaving his. And before he could do anything stupid, unintentionally or otherwise, she was speaking. "I don't know who you are. I don't know why you're here. I don't know why it's so important for you to spend time with me. I don't know why you act like an asshathalf the time. I don't know why you get as moody as a priss with a skinned knee. Honestly, the moodiness I can handle. God knows I'm a pissy person. But the stupidity, not so much, because _that _is a lie. You're lying to me, to Donna, to the clients, to _everyone _when you act like that. If you want to do it when you're _around _me, that's fine. But don't do it _to _me. Respect me at least enough to be real with me. And if you can do that, maybe this wouldn't be so hard. I'd actually like to be your friend...but only if I am friends with whoever you _really _are."

It was an impressive speech, and delivered with a strange combination of firmness and compassion. The way she looked at him when she spoke...Bruce swallowed, surprising himself with how off-guard she had taken him. "What if..." he trailed off, and after a moment, tried again. "What if I don't _know _who I really am?"

She was taken aback by his eyes, two blue pools of misery, but nonetheless, gave him a genuine smile, one that actually reflected no small amount of warmth. "That's why you _have _friends. They help you become who you should be. They help you figure it out."

There had been many, many times over the past couple of years-well, to be honest, for the past couple of decades_, _in which Bruce felt as though he were drowning within himself. Especially since Rachel had died, since his other identity had become so reviled and hunted, he felt more and more lost, only anchored by the vigilance of Alfred. And at that current moment, as he saw Annabeth regarding him with such an unusually tender expression, he felt as though someone had waded into the waters to pull him out. And that scared him more than anything...shouldn't he rescue himself?

Or maybe, shouldn't he just let himself sink further into the morass of his own misery?

But as he sat there and allowed himself the painfully brief luxury of basking in Annabeth's unexpected kindness, it occurred to him that if Annabeth became his friend, there would be no drowning, not on her watch. In her own way, she was as vigilant as Alfred, as dedicated as he was, himself. It was comforting and unnerving, all at once. And for the hundredth time, he wondered at what drove her, what demons lurked in her soul, what unhappiness lurked in her own life. He saw it so often, in her haunted eyes, her obsessive work ethic, her emotional reserve, her almost-tangible barriers...

Annabeth sighed and rose, strolled back to her side of the desk, and began sorting through a pile of mail that Maya had left on her desk earlier. Sshe was unaware that now _she _was the one being regarded with compassion and interest. All of Bruce—himself, the Batman—all of him was watching her now, and seeing her for the whole woman she was: the cold and distant female, the warm and compassionate woman, and seeing how similar she was to him.

He knew next to nothing about her, but he could read people fairly well, and in that moment, he knew-they were both the walking wounded. Yes, that's what they both were; seemingly functional adults, operating life more or less competently, yet on the inside, neurotic, obsessed, maybe even broken. In that moment, he felt a kinship and a connection like nothing he'd ever experienced before, and wanted nothing more than to manifest it, somehow, make a physical gesture to materialize the connection.

Yeah, that wasn't going to happen.

_Flip, flip, flip—_Annabeth was intent on shuffling through her mail. "Bill...request to speak at a conference...another bill...oh! Money!"

Reluctantly, Bruce dragged his mind back to the present. "Money's a problem for you? That's still something you worry about?"

Annabeth shrugged. "It's nice to get donations every now and then. And I'll always worry about money. It's a persistent insecurity."

"My endowment isn't going anywhere." Without meaning to, he had clued in to a main concern of hers. "It's for Safe Haven. No matter how much I might end up making you hate me-no matter where I go, my money stays. You don't need to worry about me taking it back."

"Go?" He had caught her attention, and was amazed to hear a tiny note of anxiety slip into her voice. "Are you going somewhere?"

Bruce shrugged. "I tend to be flighty." _No pun intended. _"You'll never know when the Russian ballet might need my attentions." The truth was, he'd always be the Batman, whatever else happened, and no one could know where that would take him, or what could happen when he got there.

"It's nice to know we got some of your money before Anastacia and Tatiana and Ivana could burn through it." Annabeth smirked and decided to ignore the brief feeling of...god only knew what...when he mentioned leaving. "No, we get some checks in the mail every now and then...it's nice..." She continued flipping through the checks and suddenly frowned. "Huh."

"What's that?" He leaned over and peered at the piece of paper in her hands.

"Someone sent a blank money order..." Annabeth flipped the paper over, and then her face paled, went expressionless.

"What is it?" Bruce saw that there was writing on the paper, but couldn't make it out.

For once, Annabeth's poker face failed her, and there was genuine bewilderment and apprehension written across her face. "It's...nothing. Someone forgot to fill it out, is all." She hastily shoved the paper under a pile of papers and looked over at him. "Are we doing this thing tonight? You're going to slum it with the plebes? You're going to be you and not the obnoxious alter ego the city loves to mock?"

He nodded. "I'll try."

"Good. Now get lost and let me get some work done. If you insist on picking me up, meet me here at four-thirty." Annabeth's attention was already wandering towards the million tasks that stretched out before her. "And Bruce?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't dress up. Not at all. Dress _down. _If you wear one of those ridiculous designer suits of yours, I swear to god I'll douse you with lighter fluid and light the flame myself." She smiled evilly and turned back to her computer, clearly a dismissal. But she still listened as he left the room; she just _knew_ he was making a phone call from his Blackberry. And as he walked down the hall, she heard his voice...

"Alfred? Do I own any jeans?"

At the luxurious penthouse which Bruce and Alfred had decided to retain, the two men surveyed the outfit that Alfred had managed to put together on such-short notice: non-designer jeans, a t-shirt and long-sleeved over shirt, and a pair of nice shoes that weren't too flashy.

Bruce gave his butler a crooked grin. "As always, I'm impressed, Alfred. Where'd you get it?"

Alfred chuckled. "You _do _have jeans, Master Bruce. You just never wear them. Although, I must say…it was difficult to find something non-designer. I had know idea where to look."

"You're a hopeless snob, Alfred." Bruce shook his head in mock dismay, but immediately moved on, planning the evening. "The concert is going to be a couple of hours. Make sure I have my checkbook, won't you?" He paused, softly chewing his lip in thought. "And I won't be coming back to the manor or the penthouse tonight. After the concert, drop us—_both _of us—off at Safe Haven. I'll have the encrypted phone on me if anything comes up, but I'm going to be at Safe Haven for the night."

Alfred cocked an eyebrow. "Shall I put some protection in your wallet, sir?" Perhaps his sarcasm was too well-hidden, for Bruce's reaction was absurdly prudish.

_"No. _God, absolutely not. That's not the point. I'm going to keep Annabeth company at Safe Haven, but not for that reason." Bruce began shedding his clothes in preparation for a long shower.

"Then for what reason, Master Bruce?"

The look Bruce gave him was the predatory look of the Batman when he was on to something. "I have some investigating to do."

* * *

Whatever Bruce had been expecting that night, he hadn't been prepared for this. He stood, stock-still, in the doorway of Annabeth's office and stared at the woman who stood before him.

He had seen her in her conservative work suits and dresses, day in and day out. He had seen her in = _battle fatigues, _practically, as she haunted the Narrows. He had even seen her in an evening dress, the night she attended his party at the Manor. But he had never, ever seen her dressed like this. She stood before him, indifferent to the effect she was having upon him: Annabeth was a completely different person, dressed in boot-cut jeans, a simple white tank top, and her steel-toed boots. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a few pieces of simple silver jewelry. Annabeth hadn't been kidding when she talked about "slumming it"; here was a woman with no pretensions, no illusions—just a woman, ready to enjoy herself, not dressing up for anyone. And the image she presented to Bruce Wayne was startlingly…sexy. And real. And…_sexy._

"What?" she asked as she grew uncomfortable under his gaze. "I told you it was casual." She regarded him with a critical eye. "I'm amazed. You actually listened." She turned to grab her jacket—a leather jacket, no less—from the back of her chair, and as he watched her fluid movements, something caught his eye.

"Annabeth…" Bruce stared at her upper arms, bare and showing a subtle muscle definition, along with... "Are those…tattoos?"

"Huh? Oh." Annabeth glanced down at her arms, and then, sheepishly, shrugged. "Yeah. I forget about them half the time. I don't usually go sleeveless." She started to put the jacket on, but Bruce moved quickly and caught the jacket in his grip.

"Wait…" he looked at her. "Do you mind if I look?"

Annabeth shrugged again, and blushed as he moved in and peered closely. Three tattoos, two on one arm, one on the other, all three high up, almost near the deltoids. One was a basic design of a falling star; the other two were tribal designs that spanned the entire circumference of both arms. All were in muted dark blue and black colors.

Bruce straightened up and struggled to keep the surprise from his expression. "I didn't know you had tattoos."

Clearly Annabeth wasn't thrilled about this conversation. "It's no big deal, Bruce. Lots of people have them. And I've had them forever."

"How long?" Bruce was genuinely intrigued by them—and found them surprisingly attractive.

"Bruce, _please." _Annabeth was really flustered now, and was struggling with her jacket until he helped her into it. When she turned around to face him, he was glaring at her. "What?"

"Drop the attitude." His voice had taken on that strangely commanding tone that seemed completely at odds with his typical devil-may-care attitude. "You get on my case for having an _act, _about hiding who I am...and yet you can't even drop your own defenses around me enough to tell me anything about you, not even a little bit about these tattoos you bear. I find them _beautiful, _Annabeth. Compelling and unexpected and _beautiful. _You could at least meet me halfway_."_

Annabeth stared at him. "You are a very odd person, Bruce." But then she relented. "The matching tribal tattoos I got when I was seventeen, when I aged out."

"Aged out?" Bruce had never heard that term before.

"Aged out of the foster care system." Annabeth jerked her head. "Let's go." They exited the office and Bruce waited as she locked her door. "When you age out, it's when you get too old for foster care. The state no longer pays your foster family to support and house you. You're on your own."

"What happens then?" They made their way down the hall and onto the elevator, where Annabeth took her traditional place as far away from him as possible.

"What happens then—when kids age out of foster care?" Annabeth pulled a face. "Usually nothing good. In my case, I ran out and got tattoos that I sometimes think look a little bit like the rotting carcass of an ancient turtle. And then I did the sensible thing and started college early, on a scholarship. I was lucky—my last foster family worked with my social worker to prep me for the transition. A lot of the kids end up homeless, completely ill-equipped for the transition. A lot of the girls end up prostitutes."

Bruce thought, briefly, of the women that he had been encountering on his patrols, the weathered, often drug-addled females, old before their time, and silently compared them to Annabeth. _There but for the __grace of god… _""So much for it taking a village," he muttered, more to himself than for the benefit of Annabeth, but she heard him anyway.

"Yeah? What do you know about it?" Clearly, she expected him to extrapolate.

Bruce hesitated, then chose his words carefully. "A few years ago, I traveled. A lot. To a lot of different places, and I saw more of life than you could possibly imagine… developing nations with social and medical ills, and god, _so many _orphaned children. More than you could imagine. But in the poorest villages, the most rural locations, a lot of times, everyone in the village did their best to make sure that the orphans were cared for...they were given a chance to become a dynamic part of the community." He turned to Annabeth, and there was barely-concealed anger in his eyes and disgust in his voice. "We're the wealthiest nation in the world, and we can't do the same? Don't we have that responsibility, that moral obligation?"

Annabeth's response was simple. "Yes." And secretly, she regarded him with new eyes.

As the elevator glided down to the first floor, the two of them looked at each other, each with no small amount of sadness on their face. Then Bruce remembered something Annabeth had said. "You mentioned your '_last _foster family.' Did you have more than one?"

"Oh yes," Annabeth sighed, and there was a note of what? resignation? amusement? in her voice. "I had several. Six or seven, I think." She caught Bruce's querying gaze and shrugged. "I was a difficult kid—and not all the families provided the best environment for me to be in, either." She fell silent again, ironically, it was that silence which said the most."Can we discuss this some other time? I'd like to have a nice evening."

"That can happen," Bruce promised. They stepped out of the elevator and passed the security desk, where Thomas was on duty. He called out, "Better be good to her, Wayne!"

Bruce waved cheerfully at the security guard before holding the front door open for Annabeth and ushering her through it with a gently hand pressing the small of her back. Annabeth scooted forward and out of his reach, but he caught up to her easily. "Just one question."

It was difficult to judge her expression, but her voice was patient enough. "Shoot."

He placed a hand on her upper arm, where the tattoo of the shooting star was. "When did you get this one? The falling star?"

"Right after I completed my dissertation and earned my PhD." Annabeth smiled, presumably at the memory. "That one, at least, I don't regret too much."

"Is it a symbol? What's it supposed to represent?"

Annabeth tilted her head upwards and looked him straight in his eyes. Her answer was a cryptic monosyllable, and didn't mask the bitterness behind the words.

"Life."


	15. Chapter 15

Decades before there was Andrew Carnegie, there had been Solomon Wayne.

By contemporary accounts, this ancestor of the current Wayne heir had been an ornery and eccentric man, a shrewd business man, a dedicated judge, a committed abolitionist, and a generous philanthropist. While he didn't broadcast this fact, Bruce was extremely proud of this direct ancestor, and emulated him more than just a little. Solomon had been heavily influential in bringing the Gothic Revival movement to Gotham, and it was due largely to him and his colleague, the architect Cyrus Pinkey, that Gotham boasted such an array of foreboding, medieval-like buildings, gargoyles, and monuments.

Not only had Solomon Wayne continued to amass the family fortune, he had also harbored countless fugitives on the Underground Railroad, alienated countless Gotham socialites (only to win them back later), and became single-handedly responsible for the establishment and construction of the original Gotham Public Library System. Certainly, it had started small with the Central Library, in all its overwrought, neo-Gothic glory. However, Solomon Wayne was a visionary, and didn't stop there. He personally established ten other branches in his lifetime, but it was the Central Library that was quintessentially Gotham, and quintessentially Solomon Wayne. And long after he had passed from the earth, long after the words on his tombstone had weathered to almost nothing—as per the demands in his will—the Gotham Central Library carried on, perhaps the most noble testament to Solomon Wayne's infinitely worthy, fascinating life.

Nothing much had changed. A few renovations had taken place to ensure the gargoyles, the spires, and the stained glass didn't decay away and topple over onto some lawsuit-happy Gotham citizen. The building had been retrofitted with all the necessary technology, and the staff had certainly altered with each passing generation. But the building itself remained outwardly unchanged, a people's university, a community gathering place, a type of paradise.

As Bruce opened the passenger's door of the Rolls-Royce and extended a hand to assist Annabeth—she she ignored it—he couldn't help but to admire the magnificent building. Despite its age, it was as majestic as ever, and resembled nothing so much as a cathedral. And it was all because of Solomon Wayne.

They joined the small crowd of people heading up the stone steps into the Library, and as they did, Bruce offered Annabeth his arm. After a moment's slight hesitation, she slipped her hand through it and allowed him to lead her in.

As they entered the foyer and passed the security desk—here Bruce did a double-take; since when did libraries need security?—someone called out Annabeth's name, and after a moment, an attractive older woman hurried over and flung herself at Annabeth. "I was hoping you would come!"

Annabeth laughed, a little uncomfortable at this unexpected attention, and as quickly as she could, disentangled herself from the woman's embrace. "It's good to be here," she told the woman. "Autumn, I'd like you to meet my...friend. Bruce. Bruce, this is the Library Director, Autumn Robertson."

The woman turned to Bruce and gave him a warm smile. "Bruce, nice to meet you." He found himself a little bit dazzled by her appearance-she was tall, with prematurely-white hair done into a French twist, and startling grayish-silver eyes. These eyes narrowed in thought for a moment. "You look familiar. Are you one of our regulars?"

"I haven't been, but I might start." Bruce lapsed into his flirty manner, almost instinctively, and was aware of Annabeth's cynically amused smirk. Autumn, however, smiled understandingly, as though she were used to it happening all the time, and then moved on to greet another patron.

As Annabeth and Bruce slowly made their way to the auditorium, Bruce leaned down and hissed in her ear. "Since when do librarians look like that?"

"Since when have you been in a library long enough to know what librarians should look like?" Annabeth rolled her eyes. "Trust me, they're a breed apart-entirely different these days. Case in point," she nodded as another woman, this one substantially younger and possibly even prettier than Autumn, approached them. "Bruce, this is the Volunteer Coordinator, Ginny McGovern."

Ginny had a way about her, a sexual magnetism that paired well with her short,curvy body. She had lustrous black eyes complimented by equally black hair that flowed down her back, and she gripped Bruce's hand with a surprising firmness and gave him an appraising look. When she moved, it was with an unconscious sensuality that turned more than one head in the crowd. "Bruce?" She glanced back and forth between Annabeth and him. "As in, Bruce Wayne?"

Bruce gave her a smile that would have melted someone less self-possessed than Ginny. "I am. Nice to meet you...how do you know Annabeth?"

Ginny grinned at Annabeth with more than a little appreciation. "She volunteered for our adult literacy program for years...she only stopped when she got a _real _job. And then, before that, she was a hellion kid that terrorized the staff...at least that's what they tell me." She glanced at her watch. "I've got to go help set up...nice to meet you, Bruce!" She winked before heading off, leaving Annabeth to smile at Bruce's shell-shocked expression.

"I told you, _a breed apart."_

"I'm more intrigued by the description of you as a hellion." Bruce playfully bumped her shoulder with his own. "What sort of shenanigans did you get into? I had you pegged as a straight-edged kind of lady. Now, there's tattoos...teenaged rebellion...what else?"

"There's piercings."

Bruce's eyes lit up. _"Really?"_

"No. I just wanted to see how gullible you are." Annabeth begin to search for a couple of empty seats. "Jesus, Bruce, do you have a thing for bad girls? You keep unfolding like a delicate little flower."

He leaned in, far too close, and with his lips hovering just above her ear, he whispered, "So do you."

More and more people filled the auditorium-young and old, men and women, middle-class types, artsy students, even a few wealthy older people, and more than a few homeless folks, too. Annabeth was perfectly in her element, and as she sneaked a glance at Bruce, she was a little surprised to see that he seemed unperturbed by the motley assembly, crowded in cheek-by-jowl. In fact, as the auditorium became more and more crowded, he caught sight of an older woman searching for a seat, and hastily gave it up for her, opting to stand with the late-arrivals.

A moment later, Annabeth joined him.

"You should have stayed," Bruce protested, but Annabeth shook her head.

"They'll bring out some folding chairs. Besides, what's the point in bringing me out if you can't be photographed with me?"

"As I remember, _you _asked _me _out. Practically bullied me into it." Bruce was enjoying himself immensely.

A few moments later, library clerks materialized with the promised folding chairs, and they were able to sit down once more. By that time, however, more than one person had caught sight of the rather imposing figure of Bruce Wayne, and people were beginning to whisper. As Bruce and Annabeth settled into their seats, they were temporarily blinded by the flash of several cameras.

Annabeth smirked. "Score."

Slowly, Bruce draped his arm around the back of Annabeth's chair, an action which was not lost on her. She glanced over and inched away from him a little. "You know, I really do like my personal space."

"I feel like a freshman on a first date," Bruce sighed. "Can you at least pretend _a little _bit?"

She squirmed and looked a little guilty. "For a little bit. But...I mean it. I don't like to be crowded."

Bruce glanced around at the auditorium, now seething with people. "Are you sure you're in the right place?"

"I'll be fine." There was a grim set to Annabeth's mouth, and a determined glint in her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."

Not long after, the house lights dimmed, and the classical pianist, a prodigy from Boston, stepped onto the stage, took a quick bow, and sat down for his performance. Unconsciously, both Bruce and Annabeth leaned forward, allowing the music to wash over them. Bruce remained intensely focused, listening to the notes, the cadences, watching the pianist's motions and performance; for him, it was a way to detach from the present and become analytical with no pressures involved; he simply observed the performance. For Annabeth, the pieces coaxed her into a calmer state of being, transported her past the crowds and took her to a place where life was much more simple and pure.

From time to time, Annabeth surfaced from her peaceful state of mind and glanced over at Bruce, who seemed to be unaware of his surroundings, so focused was he. In the auditorium's darkness, his individual features were obscured, but she still saw enough to have a pleasing view. Sure, he was easy on the eyes-Janey had plied her with demands for a description of what Bruce looked actually looked like, in the flesh, and grudgingly, Annabeth had complied. Now, however, under the cover of darkness, she allowed herself to study him with a little more thoroughness. And the more she thought about it, the more she liked what she saw. _Dammit._

There was something, though, something that she hadn't noticed before, something that she was only now becoming aware of, crowded in close as she was. He was more...substantial...than she would have imagined; it felt as though there were a massive power coiled in his body, ready to strike. It wasn't anything she could put her finger on; it was just an unexpected observation and her own paranoia, most likely...nevertheless, it made her slightly twitchy. Until Bruce glanced over and saw her staring, at which point his nicely-sculpted lips curved upwards in a small but warm smile, and Annabeth relaxed once more.

When the final notes faded away, and the crowd rose for intermission, Annabeth was one of the first to rise. "Be right back," she muttered, before darting out of the auditorium before the crowds. Bruce shrugged and simply began to people-watch, silently observing these citizens of Gotham. These were the people to whom he had dedicated his life; it stood to reason he should spend time with them.

Before long, however, he noticed someone approaching: the breathtaking Library Director, Autumn. This time, she was singling him out, headed his way. "Mr. Wayne!"

Bruce shook her hand. "You discovered me, huh?"

"Word travels fast around here," Autumn smiled. "I'm afraid I don't keep up with social news, which was why I didn't recognize you. So what brings you here?"

"Annabeth." Bruce glanced around, then leaned in closer. "We're dating."

"Really?" Autumn's tone indicated, perhaps, a little disbelief, but with the tact of a typical bureaucrat, she smoothly covered her tracks. "Annabeth's a lovely woman...and clearly a good influence, if you're coming to the library. It's not normally the domain of billionaires."

"I like to see where my tax dollars go." Bruce took in the stately surroundings. "I'm pretty certain they're being put to good use."

"They certainly are," Autumn assured him. "If for no other reason than to offer a safe haven for so many of the city's youth. That's how we got to know Annabeth here, you know. She started turning up here, every day after school, more often than not causing problems. Terrorizing the staff, annoying the patrons, trying to start fights."

Bruce was not as surprised as he could have been—in a way, knowing of Annabeth's fierce fighting spirit and smoldering anger, this was no longer news. But here was an opportunity to go digging...so he prompted Autumn, just a little. "Annabeth was in foster care, wasn't she? A ward of the state?"

"She was. And somehow, despite all indications to the contrary, she turned out remarkably well. We had some staff that really stuck by her and helped. She was a terribly smart girl...but with no love, no direction, no nurturing, she got lost. Somehow she managed to find her way...she was one of the lucky ones." Autumn smiled at her memories of the younger Annabeth. "I remember...she must have been about ten. Was hanging out here at the library one evening, when her foster father showed up. He was the reason she began spending so much time here...she was scared of him. He came in that night, in fits about something, and he started to get rough with her. I was the head of Reference then, and was about to call the police, when she just hauled off and kicked him where she knew it would hurt. Ten years old, and she knew that."

Just hearing the story now, so many years after the fact, set Bruce's pulse racing with the all-too-familiar rage. He allowed himself a moment to master it, and then asked, in what he hoped wasn't the voice he reserved for the Batsuit, "What happened then?"

"I can't remember," Autumn smiled sadly, but before she could say anything more, Annabeth's voice chimed in from behind them.

"What happened was that he took me home that night and slapped me silly. I had some bruises for a week after." She sidled up to Bruce. "Been nosy, have you?"

"I was bored...you left me to my own devices. Disaster usually strikes." Bruce gave Autumn an appreciative look as the director wandered off to schmooze, and then turned back to Annabeth. "I'm sorry. You don't exactly seem very...open about yourself. Where did you go, anyway?"

"I ducked out for a bit, so the crowds wouldn't get to me." Annabeth glanced around; even now, as people were beginning to settle back into their seats, the atmosphere was too close and pressing for her comfort. "Look, Bruce, if you want to know about me...just ask."

"Will you answer?"

"Probably not." Annabeth saw him about to protest, and went on to explain. "At least, not yet. I barely know you. And I know I've been an asshole to you. I haven't been fair. I want to..." she paused, clearly struggling. "I want to be able to talk to you. Just...give me some time."

He looked down at her, seeing past her barriers and her defensive posture...all along, he had sensed her fear and her coldness, and it was then, as he saw the fear in her eyes, felt the anxiety that emanated off of her, that he realized that there was someone in Gotham more broken than even he. It was an incredibly saddening thought, and as it occurred to him, Bruce felt flooded by an empathy he had never expected, nor even wanted. Annabeth could represent all of Gotham-the Gotham he had failed.

Slowly, tentatively, Bruce reached out and placed his hands on her shoulders, and with infinite tenderness, he pulled her into his body, just close enough to place a kiss on the crown of her head, before he released her and stepped back. In the background, he could hear the click of half a dozen cameras, but the flashes did not blind him, and so he had the gratification of seeing Annabeth standing, looking somewhat dazed...and maybe, just a little bit happy.

He started to turn away, but before he could, Annabeth caught his arm and gave a slight tug. "Thank you." She didn't look very comfortable with the exchange, but she was trying, at least. "Sometimes, you really are a prince." As she said it, she blushed down to her roots.

When the intermission was over, and the music commenced once more, Bruce and Annabeth turned their attention back to the stage and tried to ignore the roaring confusion in their heads and the muted excitement in their hearts.

By the end of the concert, everyone knew that the Prince of Gotham had descended from on high to mingle with the commoners.. Annabeth could sense the rising interest of the crowds, in the low murmurs she could hear over the music, and in the stares from the patrons around them. She began to get restless, shifting in her seat, occasionally glancing around, becoming hyper-alert.

Beside her, Bruce could sense her heightened discomfort. His arm, which up until now had been casually draped around the back of her chair, slowly tightened around her shoulders protectively, and he gave a brief squeeze before withdrawing entirely—giving just enough physical reassurance without contributing to her tension. He felt a little guilty. Nothing could have adequately prepared her for the kind of scrutiny that hounded him. Long ago he had learned to accept, if not embrace, this scrutiny, but it was an entirely new thing to Annabeth. Now the vultures were about to descend, and she'd have to learn to cope through total immersion. Effective, perhaps...but not a comforting thought.

"Are you alright?" he murmured.

Annabeth stiffened, not realizing he had been observing her so closely. "I'll be fine. I just don't-"

"—like crowds," Bruce finished for her. "You sure you're up for this? I think the press may have been breeding like bunnies since intermission."

"I'll manage."

In reality, as the concert ended, and the patrons and staff rose and began to mingle, it was Annabeth's Gethsemane. Truly, in that moment before the crowds began to swarm, she prayed for the cup to pass from her lips. But, after all, coming to the concert had been her idea, and while she suspected it would be a success, she wasn't expecting _this. _She began to feel the familiar, crushing weight on her chest, and her heart began to pound.

Bruce placed a hand at the small of her back and leaned in close, and for once, Annabeth didn't protest or shrink away. He could feel the tension building within her, and he heard her breathing begin to grow more rapid. "Listen to my voice. Focus on it." His voice was low, barely audible over the noisy laughter and chatter of the crowds, yet it commanded her attention. "Breathe, slowly, from your diaphragm. Stick close to me." He glanced down at her, and noticed at how small and terrified she looked. "Anticipating all the crowds and the press is only going to make it worse. Don't think—just do."

Together they began to inch their way out of the auditorium.

"Bruce! Mr. Wayne!"

Without drawing away from Annabeth, Bruce looked over to the source of the bellowing voice. It was Vicki Vale, his favorite reporter for the _Gazette, _looking practically feral as she descended upon them. "What brings you out to the public library, Bruce? Don't you have _more prestigious _places to go?"

Bruce smiled toothily. "Don't you think the library is prestigious, Ms. Vale?" Annabeth's words came into his mind with effortless recollection. "After all, it _is_ the people's university."

"How very… egalitarian." Like the good reporter she was, Vicki seemed quite unconvinced.

Distracted by the forceful reporters who stood before them, Annabeth had managed to calm down somewhat, and watched as Bruce handled the press with finesse and ease and even graciousness. He must have spent his whole life in the media spotlight, and it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest—the man must have developed the patience of a saint. And here the press was, looking for an angle from which they could ridicule him once more. Suddenly, Annabeth found herself quite riled up.

"What's wrong with Bruce coming to the library?" she piped up, taking both Bruce and Vicki by surprise. "He pays his taxes like everyone else, so he should be able to enjoy the same things we do! The library's open for _everyone._" Her eyes flashed a challenge, daring Vicki to contradict her.

Bruce did his best not to show his surprise. Actually, Annabeth looked a little surprised, too. But he recognized the fire within her, and Vicki's pretend snobbery was fanning the flames. "It's about time the people of Gotham mingle a little more, don't you think?" she asked Vicki. "Maybe it's a good idea for us all to start bridging the economic divide and stop making assumptions about each other. It's high time we all come together and be willing to learn more and suspend our prejudices and our ignorance. Bruce Wayne is man enough to step up—so what about the rest of you?" She stopped abruptly, her chest heaving. The panic hadn't receded completely, but this had served as enough of a distraction to keep it at bay.

For the first time, Vicki really focused on the woman who by Bruce Wayne's side, and recognized Annabeth from the tabloid picture taken at The Top of Gotham. She practically licked her lips in anticipation; she scented fresh kill. "Are you going to tell us who your companion is, Bruce?"

By this point, half a dozen reporters within the vicinity, as well as an equal number of photographers, and even a fair amount of patrons, were hovering with baited breath. Out of the corner of her eye, Annabeth saw Autumn and Ginny lurking, trying to overhear as much as possible.

Aware of the attention, aware that much depended on how he presented himself, Bruce squeezed Annabeth to him and looked down at her adoringly. "This is Annabeth de Burgh. She's a hardworking Gotham citizen—social worker, counselor, volunteer, and lobbyist for economic and gender equality. She's the best kind of person, the kind of person we need more of in Gotham." Here he looked squarely at Vicki, and then turned to the cameras and tried to look as love-struck as possible. "And, lucky me—she's my girlfriend." He gave a vapid grin, signature Brucie Wayne. "How long before you think she gets sick of me?"

The crowd, and even Vicki Vale, laughed at this, delighted to see their Prince acting worthy of his crown for once. And then there were a dozen camera flashes illuminating the library, and Annabeth smiled a sickly little smile and tried her hardest not to strangle Bruce. After all, that's not what girlfriends—real or imaginary—did to their billionaire boyfriends. But judging by the guilty looks Bruce was sneaking her, he was clearly not discounting the possibility.

* * *

Not long after, they managed to disentangle themselves from the crowd—although not before Bruce managed to very publicly present Autumn and the Gotham Central Library with a substantial check, to the infinite delight of the press. Annabeth shook her head, but was secretly pleased... it was a business relationship, after all, and if everyone benefited the way the Library and Safe Haven did, she wasn't going to protest too much.

But still...as they left the building, she gave him a little bit of a hard time. "Why'd you give the check in public? Why not anonymously?"

"Are you questioning my motives?" Bruce didn't appear affronted, however. "If I did it anonymously, who would know? Who would care? Where Bruce Wayne goes, the rest of the wealthy of Gotham will follow. I promise you, supporting the 'people's university' is going to be the next big thing."

Annabeth shook her head. "You can be a disturbingly manipulative person, Bruce, has anyone ever told you that?"

Wisely, he remained silent.

Alfred had managed to park the Rolls-Royce by the curb, right outside the Library steps, so that when Bruce and Annabeth emerged into the cool evening, and together, the they were able to hurry into the idling vehicle and elude the press as they streamed out of the building in pursuit. As the car pulled away from the curb, Bruce turned to Annabeth. "That was more effective than I expected it to be."

"You certainly milked it for all you were worth," Annabeth retorted. "_Girlfriend? _I know it's been a while since I've dated, but aren't guys supposed to _ask _before they promote their dates? Alfred? What do you think?"

Alfred glanced into the rearview mirror. "In my general experience, that is the standard practice. But then, I come from the era where grunts and clubs worked just as well. Or offering a dowry to the patriarch of the family."

Bruce laughed. "Well, Annabeth, you certainly gave them food for thought. I didn't think you'd jump in like that." Secretly, he was more than a little proud; day by day, she was revealing more and more grit. " 'Suspend our prejudices and ignorance'? Hello, pot! It's kettle, you're looking mighty black." In a quieter voice, so that Alfred couldn't hear, he told her, "You were amazing."

Annabeth didn't answer. She looked out the window on her side of the car, and watched the cityscape glide past. Occasionally a streetlamp would cast a yellowish glow on her face, which was otherwise obscured in the darkness of the car. Finally she turned back to him. "You were pretty great, too. Thank you for keeping me grounded. When there are crowds, sometimes I can get a little…" she paused, trying to search for the right words.

"Neurotic? Unhinged?" Bruce helpfully supplied. "Crazy?"

"_No." _Annabeth smiled despite herself. "I was going to say 'intense.' And it's not all the time that it happens. Just sometimes, when I'm already under stress, or when it feels like I can't get away. Anyway…you handled me better than I handle myself. Thank you."

Bruce was aware of Alfred, gazing at them once more in the rearview mirror. He was probably getting plenty of fodder with which to torment him.

"Any business issues come up tonight, Alfred?"

Their eyes met, and both of them knew that Bruce was referring to business more serious than Wayne Enterprises. Fortunately, Alfred was able to answer, "Nary a peep, Master Bruce. All is quiet with…the business."

A certain amount of euphoria was beginning to overtake Annabeth; it had been an extraordinary day for her, and for lack of any better way for her to process everything, she decided once more to pursue the noble path of liminality and push her own boundaries. She was feeling kindly disposed to all of humanity, and so decided to chat up Alfred. "Does Bruce always work this hard, Alfred? Seems like he's always talking about 'the business.'"

Alfred was keenly aware of Bruce's eyes boring into the back of his head. "Oh, yes, Miss Annabeth. Bruce is _quite _dedicated to his job. It keeps him up _all night, _sometimes. You'd be amazed at all the hard knocks he's willing to take for his business."

Now Bruce was staring out the car window. It was either that or trying to kill Alfred with his eyes, and he simply hadn't mastered that particular skill.

Yet.

However, Annabeth was gratifyingly—and unexpectedly—impressed. "I didn't realize just how dedicated you were, Bruce."

He grinned wickedly at her. "Time to suspend your prejudices and ignorance, don't you think?"

It was a short drive from the Library to Safe Haven, and soon the Rolls glided to a stop in front of the brownstone. Annabeth prepared to get out, but was surprised to see Bruce alight from his side of the vehicle and hurry over to her side of the car. He opened the door and offered her his hand, but Annabeth shook her head. "Date's over." She bade Alfred goodnight and began to climb the steps of the brownstone building, but saw Bruce sticking by her side. "Bruce, when the date's over, you go home and…do what ever it is you do in that enormous house of yours."

"I thought maybe…I could stay here a little while longer?" Bruce's voice was hopeful. Annabeth noted that it lacked his habitual self-assurance.

"There's no press here, Bruce. You don't need to milk the date anymore."

He shook his head. "I'm not milking anything, Annabeth. I just…don't want to go home. I'd rather be here."

She looked away for a moment, considering. When she turned and looked at him again, it was with a gaze of sympathy and understanding. "I know the feeling. Come on inside."

* * *

Outside, clouds began to gather, and the temperature rapidly fell—a sure sign that autumn had come to Gotham. Within the walls of Safe Haven, however, all was comfortable, even downright cozy. In the common room, which, Bruce learned, was where almost everyone gravitated to in the evenings, the atmosphere was actually cheerful. Over a dozen women had made themselves comfortable, as well as half as many children again. The women chattered, read, watched television, fussed at their children; a few kept to themselves; one stretched out on the couch and slept.

"New arrival," Annabeth whispered as she and Bruce settled in at one of the tables. "She's depressed-sometimes they are at first. It's a hard adjustment."

Bruce nodded, but his attention was focused on the children. All of them seemed unusually subdued for children, but then, given their circumstances, perhaps it wasn't so strange. One child in particular, a girl no more than four or five, looked particularly somber as she quietly played with a menagerie of stuffed animals. Every now and then, she would glance over at her peers-two children playing with the wooden block set-but didn't seem interested in joining them.

"That's Jaclyn," Annabeth informed him. "She and her mom came in last week-her mom had just gotten out of the hospital."

"What was wrong with her?"

"Her husband shot her." Annabeth paused. "In front of Jaclyn."

Bruce let out a breath and focused more closely on Jaclyn. Her silence seemed disturbing, now, and he began to wonder how the girl was internalizing all she saw. "Will she be okay?"

"Who? Jaclyn or her mom?"

"Both."

"I hope so." Annabeth didn't seem too optimistic. "They've been in here before, actually. And then Jaclyn's mom went back to the husband last time."

_"Why?" _Bruce was genuinely baffled. "Why would someone go back to that kind of situation?"

"Lots of reasons. Financial reasons, for example—they think they can't make it on their own. Sometimes they're right; they have no marketable skills. Or sometimes they think that they don't deserve any better-society does a great job of devaluing and objectifying women, and getting us to internalize it. And then, there are some women that just get addicted to the angst in the relationship. And then there's the saddest reason of all."

"What's that?"

Annabeth laughed, but there was no mirth in her voice. "The oldest reason alive. Lust." She paused. "And even more than that, love."

"No." Bruce rejected that, flat out. "That's not love."

"It is to them, Bruce. Not all love is healthy love. There's obsessive, sick, violent love—which isn't really love at all, not the way it's usually defined. It's pathological, really_._People get warped ideas of love. Just look at all these children. Think of all the boys that have come through here, having seen their fathers beat and threaten and manipulate and control their mothers. That's what they're raised to see as acceptable. And the girls learn to accept it, too. And sometimes, that kind of love is just a nasty addiction, and going cold turkey is hard."

With that, she abandoned him and settled down on the floor beside Jaclyn, where together they played with the stuffed animals. Bruce remained at the table and contemplated the scene before him. Annabeth amazed him; she truly did. He didn't know how it had come to pass, but he knew, truly knew, that much of what Annabeth had learned, she had learned the hard way. Briefly he thought of the various models, actresses, and socialites he had half-heartedly pursued; while their physical beauty was astounding, not one of them had the internal grace and tenacity that Annabeth did. Nor did they have the issues, the moodiness, the resentment, the hostility, or the substantial chip that Annabeth carried. And yet…none of them had intrigued and challenged him as Annabeth did.

Suddenly, he felt foolish for remaining at the table, holding himself aloof from the activities of the rest of the room, and after a moment's deliberation, he joined Annabeth and Jaclyn on the floor. Annabeth looked at him with surprise, but Jaclyn, somber though she was, offered him the simple smile of a child and offered him a stuffed cat that had clearly seen better days.

Jaclyn didn't speak much, but she gradually grew more relaxed in the presence of two adults who were not trying to kill each other. Bruce and Annabeth coaxed her with the stuffed animals, and then Bruce began piling all of them on top of Jaclyn, which provoked from her an unexpected laugh of glee. More than one of the clients looked over at them, all of them wearing the same expression of surprise that Annabeth now had.

"That's the first time she laughed since she got here," she told Bruce, not trying to hide the admiration in her voice. "_You made her laugh."_

Bruce tried to downplay it. "It's not a big deal." He began to tickle Jaclyn, which provoked another wave of giggles, but his attention was still on Annabeth. "I remember feeling like I could never smile again, when I was a child. That numbness, that hollow feeling. No child should ever have to feel like that."

Annabeth knew the feeling, too, all too well, but didn't feel the need to share it. After all, Bruce was referring to the death of his parents, which he rarely did, and which Annabeth was ashamed to say she didn't often think about.

"I forget sometimes," she told him. "I forget that shitty things happened to you, too."

Bruce smiled gently. "You forget because I don't publicly dwell on it. It's not your fault." _How can you know I obsess over it every day and night and let it control almost every move I make and let it mold every aspect of who I am, layer upon layer? _Wisely, he kept that thought to himself, and changed the subject to something that was less likely to provoke her to tears or him to don Kevlar. "Have you heard from Marjane?" he asked.

Annabeth looked up from the tatty stuffed elephant she held. "Yeah, she called a little earlier in the week. That reminded me-she asked me to tell you hello. I think she misses you." She shook her head. "Craziness."

"How's she doing?"

"Good...she's being home-schooled for the moment. I think she's going to give the baby up for adoption. But...I think she's really homesick. She kept talking about her parents, back in Iran. She can't contact them. My guess is that if she does, they'll tell her husband where she is."

Bruce remembered the frightened, injured girl who had arrived at Safe Haven the same day he had paid his first visit; perhaps it has beenhelping her that had really opened him to the idea of helping Safe Haven on a personal level. Being able to provide some comfort and help was an incredible feeling, vastly different than what he felt during his never-ending nighttime war. At least at Safe Haven, the relief was immediate and effective. "It has to be hard."

"It _is_ hard, for all of them. Especially the ones that go into hiding, and change their identities. I don't know if I could have that kind of courage." Annabeth's voice was almost reverential. "It might not be much of a life I have here, but it would be awful to leave it."

Any answer he might have given was interrupted as the intercom on the wall buzzed, and the night guard's voice blared over the speaker. "Intake in the lobby, Annabeth."

Instantly, Annabeth was on her feet and heading towards the door.

"What's an intake?" Bruce asked before she left.

"A new client. Or a new family of clients." Annabeth slipped into business mode before his eyes. "I've got to go interview them and determine what they need. Sometimes they need medical attention. Stay here, hang out...or do whatever it was you were planning to do." She was out the door, but poked her head back inside, a small smile quirking at her lips. "Don't play with matches. And the emus are off-limits."

It had been for this opportunity that Bruce had decided to hang around. As soon as he was certain that Annabeth had headed down to the lobby, he encircled Jaclyn with an army of stuffed animals—this, too, delighted her—and casually rose and exited the common room, making sure none of the clients observed him. He had to move quickly, decisively-and so he wasted no time in making tracks for Annabeth's office.

The door was locked, but a few moment's jimmying had the door open in no time. From that point on, Bruce worked silently, and without interruption: methodically he searched her office, digging through the stacks of files and paperwork until he found exactly what he had been searching for, and what had compelled him to return to Safe Haven this evening. He found the blank money order, the one that had perturbed Annabeth so earlier in the day, and studied it closely. When he flipped it over, that was when he saw the terse message, succinct and sinister and penned in beautiful, neat script:

_I need your help, and I can give you help too. Meet me in the alley behind the Narrows Y on Monday the 29th at 10 PM._

Bruce knew where he would be going on the night of the 29th. After all, the note hadn't said that Annabeth should come alone.


	16. Chapter 16

Another Monday arrived.

On that particular morning, Trinity found herself with a rare moment alone at home. She was all caught up on her errands and appointments and beauty regime, and so there was nothing left to do but indulge in her favorite activity of all—reading. In her elegant, well-appointed midtown condo, the newspapers had begun to pile up. She had been so busy lately, she hadn't had the time to keep up with the news; not a good development for her career. So much of her business depended on her ability to provide intelligent, well-informed conversation about _everything, _including current events. And now, she was scarcely able to keep up with the bare minimum. Of course, if things went the way she intended them, she'd have a bit more free time, at least for a while.

When her friend Reagan had been attacked the other evening, Trinity has gotten the message loud and clear: Donzetti was intent on her becoming his mistress, and he was willing to play dirty to make it happen. Attacking Trinity's friends wasn't his only strategy, though—more than a few of her regular clients had suddenly, without explanation, dropped away, and she suspected Donzetti had been behind that, quietly applying pressure, or possibly even making threats. Still, she had held out…but when they had attacked Reagan…that had broken her. Seeing Reagan on that hospital bed, her face and body painfully damaged, Trinity was defeated. Reagan was her closest friend, an ally as well as a colleague, and had so far managed not to come under the control of the Arrows. In fact, she was actually contemplating getting _out _of the business completely when this had happened. Trinity knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this had been no random attack: it was a message meant for her. As she sat there by the hospital bed, holding Reagan's hand and trying to calm her down, Trinity permitted herself to wallow in an admittedly irrational sense of guilt. It was her fault, at least partially, that Reagan had been attacked.

Guilt soon faded away, replaced with a much more useful and productive emotion: anger. Trinity silently seethed as she watched the nurses and doctors treat Reagan. Little by little, she and Reagan and countless other women were submitting to the Arrows, quietly allowing those men to destroy their lives and livelihood. They were willing to exchange what freedoms they had for a little bit of false security, Trinity realized, and immediately remembered a quote from some high school class in her misspent youth—Benjamin Franklin: "Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain a little security will deserve neither and lose both."

She was going to become Donzetti's mistress…but she was going to do it on her terms. Terms Donzetti wouldn't know about until it was too late.

It was that nurse at the emergency room who had given her the idea. Bless her heart, the girl thought Reagan had been beaten up by her boyfriend, or maybe her pimp, and passed on the business card of some woman who helped abused women and children. Trinity had almost wanted to laugh at the nurse—both common sense and good manners had intervened—until she listened to what the nurse had said.

_Annabeth de Burgh can help you. She's got connections with the police—she can make sure you stay safe._

Reagan had paid no mind to the nurse, but at that point, Trinity got to thinking. And when she got home from the hospital, she got to work.

One of the great things about Trinity was that she had come from nothing, and had encountered and befriended many people who had come from nothing, too. Some of them hadn't had the same luck and success that she had, and had stayed lower down on the food chain—but Trinity had stayed in touch, even helped them out from time to time. She had a network of colleagues that she trusted, and as she began to lay her plans, she called upon them.

She'd learned a great deal about Annabeth de Burgh in a very small period of time, and she had liked what she learned. Trinity had wasted no time in acting—there was really no safe way to contact Annabeth; the blank money order in the mail had been the only thing she could think of. She had a few misgivings; it seemed as though some of the women she had helped had been connected with the Narrows and met a brutal end. But Trinity was pretty certain that plenty of women had encountered similar fates. She wasn't going to hold that against Annabeth—especially since she needed Annabeth to get her out of this mess.

In a leisurely fashion, she prepared a mug of tea and settled down with the papers. And almost immediately, she spat out a mouthful of Earl Grey as she saw the headline in front of her:

_**The Sinner and the Saint: Bruce Wayne's New Love Interest**_

_Annabeth de Burgh begins fairytale with the Prince of Gotham_

The name caught her eyes: Annabeth de Burgh. It couldn't be the same woman…since when did Wayne go around with plain-Jane social workers? Granted, Trinity had never met the man personally, but his reputation preceded him. He certainly didn't sound like the type of man who would abandon his models and sports cars long enough to fill his empty little head with anything of substance—Trinity caught herself before the thought went on any further. She didn't make it this far in her business by harboring a lot of preconceived notions about anyone, potential clients or not.

She read the article: Bruce Wayne turning over new leaf…bedazzled by the spirit and striking nature of Gotham native de Burgh…following in the family footsteps and becoming heavily involved with philanthropic efforts. The article actually mentioned very little about Annabeth, other than saying she was an extremely active political lobbyist—yeah_, right—_and volunteer in the community. No other information on her. After all, _she_ wasn't really the news. She was just a tool through which the press could spin and sell a new story about Wayne. The picture was unremarkable, other than the fact that both Wayne and Annabeth looked normal—like any other person on the street. Goodness, Annabeth de Burgh _must _have besotted him.

So Annabeth was dating the wealthiest—and most powerful, whether or not he knew it, or even cared—man in Gotham. Not what Trinity, or probably anyone else in Gotham, would have anticipated, but then, this _was_ Gotham. Strange and violent men dressed up as bats and clowns and tried to wage wars under the cover of darkness; other very bizarre people seemed to gravitate towards their little island and wreak havoc; entire parts of the city would immobilize at the first hint of disaster. If Gotham were a person and not a city, it would need a psychiatrist and a pharmacopeia of mood-stabilizing drugs. So Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, was dating Annabeth de Burgh, the woman who was about to become unwitting savior of sex workers all over Gotham? Stranger things had happened, especially in Trinity's line of work.

* * *

Despite the growing hostility Annabeth hwas encounrtering when she ventured into the Narrows, she could not cease her work there, not entirely. While she had wisely, and somewhat unwillingly, stopped roaming the alleys and streets, she still journeyed there at least one night a week for her time at the Y. There, at least, she was still welcome.

Normally she enjoyed the time she spent there. She taught community education classes there, mainly coping mechanisms and life skills for disadvantaged teenaged girls, but she also spent time with her Little Sister, Latoria, there. Each week she'd help Latoria with her homework, and they'd talk, and spend some time in the gym. They normally had a good time—Latoria was a nice girl, smart, knew enough to keep away from trouble, and she was mature, too. She knew a fair deal about Annabeth, and had revealed a lot of her own life's circumstances and hardships, too. The two females liked and respected each other, and they had an easy relationship.

That Monday evening, however, their normally pleasant rapport was strained. Annabeth was on edge and twitchy, and Latoria could sense it.

"What's _wrong _with you?" she demanded as Annabeth jiggled her leg once more. "You're impatient, or something. Give me time, I'll figure out the equation." Latoria loathed Algebra, but doggedly worked away at it. In school right now they were teaching quadratic equations, and they were pissing her off. She looked up at Annabeth. "Who needsthis crap, anyway? Do you use it?"

"Um..." Annabeth tried to make a joke. "Would you believe me if I told you that finding the square root of negative-b-squared-minus-4ac totally helps me figure out my grocery budget?"

Latoria rolled her eyes. "Just what I thought. They're trying to keep us busy with this junk so we don't try to start a revolution."

"Just wait 'till you read Marx and Engels." Annabeth was trying, truly she was, but frankly, she was nervous. Since the rash of murders, she'd reluctantly withdrawn from the Narrows, and the cryptic message she had gotten in the mail had made her twitchy. Who wanted to see her? What if it was a trap? But why would anyone want to trap her?

_Stuff it, de Burgh, _she scolded herself. _Who would want to trap you? _She was just Annabeth—a trouble- maker, but no serious contender or road block to Gotham's foulness. She did what she did because it was a compulsion and an obsession and a moral duty and because she could do nothing else, regardless of whether it actually worked. And sometimes she wondered if it did.

Latoria was eager to take a break. She threw down her pencil, stretched, and glanced slyly over at Annabeth. "What's with that guy you're dating?"

Annabeth had been anticipating this ever since she had seen that wretched article in the paper. While it hadn't been a surprise, she still wasn't particularly thrilled. Fortunately, the press had painted her as a political lobbyist, and _not _a woman who went about wrecking the traditional nuclear family and hiding women and children and getting involved in the torrid and nasty underworld of Gotham's lower classes. Just as well...neither she nor Donna particularly wanted Safe Haven to get dragged into it. In occasional moments of anxiety, though, Annabeth wondered how long the media spotlight could stay away.

"He's just a guy." Annabeth didn't want to mislead Latoria too much-after all, she was supposed to be a role model. "Just a guy I'm seeing. A guy that wears too much Armani."

"He's more than 'just a guy.'" Latoria was only fifteen, but she was no fool. "He's Bruce Wayne! Even I know who he is! What's he like?"

"A raving moron. Come on, finish your homework. Only two more equations to go." Annabeth was starting to get jittery again. She caught the disparaging look that Latoria gave her and relented a little. "Fine. Sometimes he acts like a little boy, always looking for something to keep him entertained."

"And the other half of the time?" Latoria prompted, her eyes shining. "Come on, you know my ma doesn't let me date. Let me live a little through you!"

Annabeth actually laughed. "Dating in your teens and dating in your thirties are very different." _Especially when you're NOT actually dating. _"The other half of the time-when he's not being a total fool-he's really great. Not what you'd expect at all."

"How so?" Latoria actually looked a little bit dreamy. Damn it, the kid was actually going to make her think about it. Between Janey, Donna, and Latoria, she might actually start to appreciate Bruce; but frankly, Annabeth preferred not to think of it at all. Much safer and easier that way. Nevertheless...

"He's...very considerate. Sweet. And he puts up with a lot."

"He must put up with a lot, if he dates you." Latoria cackled at her own joke, but stopped when she saw Annabeth's face. "What? It's the truth! You're not exactly warm and fuzzy when it comes to men. Even I can see that."

"Well." Annabeth feebly tried to defend herself. "When you do my job, you don't see a lot of the good in men. Or anyone, for that matter."

Latoria had heard a fair amount of Annabeth's job, so understood the reference. Still, she retained more hope than Annabeth did. "There's got to be some good men out there. Why can't Bruce Wayne be one of them?"

She sat there, all of fifteen years old, more than a little aware of the cruelties of life, and yet, Latoria was hopeful and idealistic and seemed completely energized by, and _not_ terrified of, all the possibilities that danced through the world. Watching her, Annabeth was put to shame. It was at times like this that Annabeth realized that she had as much to learn from her Little Sister as Latoria had to learn from her, perhaps even more.

"Yes." Annabeth smiled. "I suppose you're right."

They continued working until almost ten, at which point Latoria reluctantly gathered her things and stuffed them into her school bag, a nice canvas messenger bag Annabeth had purchased for her at the beginning of the school year. "My ma's gonnanwalk me home. I don't want to keep her waiting." She grinned at her mentor. "Besides, sounds like you should go spend some time with your boyfriend."

"Scram," Annabeth said affectionately. She watched as Latoria took off, and then started to gather together her own things. She hoped that Latoria would be gone by the time she headed out into the alleys; the last thing Annabeth needed was for someone for whom she was trying to set an example see her duck into the nastiest part of the city. She bundled her leather jacket around herself and took a moment to gather her thoughts and fortify her spirit. Only a very short while had passed since she had last lurked in this area, but it always took a gathering of her courage.

And then she headed out into the night.

* * *

There were actually a lot of alleys behind the Narrows Y, but Annabeth had a strong suspicion she knew exactly which one she was supposed to head to. After checking to make sure that neither Latoria nor Latoria's protective mother had lingered, she made tracks for the darkest, dankest alley, just adjacent to the Y's dumpsters. She was bound to encounter someone there, even if it was Gotham's legendary rats.

She shivered. The harsh and oppressive heat of summer was now only a very distant memory, and it was getting downright _cold. _Of course, a certain amount of her chills were probably nothing more than nervousness. She reached into her coat pockets and traced the familiar form of the can of pepper spray in one pocket, and in the other, the much-newer taser gun. Only after much internal debate had she purchased it, and she still wasn't completely sold on the idea. But being away from the Narrows for only a couple of weeks was enough to put her off her game, and she had ultimately came down on the side of the taser.

She made a mental note to do a refresher course on women's self defense, and aloud she muttered, "I'm getting too old for this crap."

"Maybe."

Annabeth whirled around sharply and found herself facing a tall woman. At least, that was what she appeared to be—in the darkness, it was hard to make out her features. She was bundled into a bulky grey hoodie, and it was her voice, husky yet feminine, that gave her away. "Where the hell did you come from?" Annabeth demanded, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice.

"The direction you weren't looking in."

The two of them stood there, regarding each other for a moment before Annabeth relented. "You sent me a message, didn't you?"

"I did."

Annabeth's nerves were already on edge. "Well? Are you going to tell me who you are, or what you want? Or should I be trying to sign a lease here?"

"I don't think you'd want to live here, Annabeth. It's really too far from your day job, don't you think?"

"What do you know?" Annabeth's hackles were raised. "You'd better stick to business here, without making threats."

"No threats," the woman told her, and there was amusement in her voice. "Just curious as to how much of your two jobs go together. You're quite an interesting woman."

"You have me at the disadvantage." Annabeth's survival instincts were now really kicking into gear, and her eyes were constantly darting around, even as she was becoming mindful of the woman's every move. "You seem to know plenty about me, but I know next to nothing about you."

"That's how we're going to keep it for now. I have information for you."

Annabeth wasn't impressed. "Why should I trust you?"

The woman shrugged, seemingly indifferent to Annabeth's lack of cooperation. "I think you and I have similar goals."

"Yeah? Which would be what?"

"We both would like to see the Arrows go down." The woman paused, and then smiled. "Go down spectacularly, in flames, with no chance, no hopes of recovery."

Annabeth let out a short laugh. "You're not serious. You're hardly the type that mixes with the Arrows." It was true, too—even in the darkness, even though Annabeth couldn't get a good look at her, she could tell-the woman had an air about her, in the way she talked and carried herself. This woman was classy, and therefore this situation stank of duplicity. "You're not an Arrows woman. I've met plenty. I don't know who you are or what you want, but it's nothing good, and I'm not wasting another second here. You've got something up your sleeve, and I'm not going to put myself at risk."

She turned to leave, and a few things happened as she did-the woman lunged for her; Annabeth plunged her hand into her coat and came out with the taser gun, and a shadowy mass descended from above in a sudden, silent blur and landed in the space between them. The Batman had decided it was time to bust up the hen party.

"Jesus!"the woman cried, her previously cool composure rattled. "What the hell is that?"

_"Get out of here!" _Annabeth hissed at him. "This has nothing to do with you!"

Trinity hadn't bargained on this when she had arranged this secret meeting—but she could see how it could help. She had stepped back a few feet, but now she was closing in on them once more. "Wait-are you-" she shook her head in disbelief and turned to Annabeth. "Is that the Batman?"

"It is." The Batman answered for himself, and took the opportunity to draw himself up into his most imposing posture. Annabeth might not be cowed by it anymore, but here was fresh blood. His voice became a snarl as he demanded, "What do you want with Annabeth?"

She didn't acknowledge him, but looked at Annabeth for answers. "I thought he was an urban myth...what's up with his voice?" she added in an undertone.

Annabeth shrugged. "I think he eats gravel. Look," she said to the Batman, "You don't need to be here. You weren't invited."

"What do you want?" he asked the woman again, ignoring Annabeth.

Trinity could read men and women very well—part of her job description, really—and even if the Batman was in a mask and a costume, she could tell right away that he was more receptive than Annabeth. "I have information," she told him. "Information that might, in time, bring down the Arrows."

"What kind of information?"

Trinity saw that Annabeth was listening, too. _Good. _"I'm not sure yet. But they're about to get involved in something new, something_big. _They're bringing something over from Russia. And they're trying to get investors over here to get on board with it."

"How do you know this?" Annabeth was, despite herself, being drawn into the intrigue. Unconsciously, the three of them began to inch closer together.

Trinity's face was grim. "I'm Donzetti's woman of the week. You know he and Jones le Blanc have control of practically all of Gotham's sex industry, right?" She didn't wait for them to answer. "I'm one of their recent _prized _acquisitions, and Donzetti decided he wants me for himself. I've already heard this much, so I'm going in. And I'm going to find out the rest."

The Batman had cocked his head in such a way that Annabeth could tell that he was listening, and giving serious consideration to the woman's plan. "No!" she said sharply. To the woman, she said, "I don't know who you are. But I can tell you that you don't want to do this. It's too dangerous. Come with me." Her voice had taken on a pleading note. "We can hide you, move you, get you started in a new city. Just...don't do this."

"This _is _my city," the woman said flatly. "My life and my work are here. And I want them back. And I want it to be safer." She turned to the Batman. "You see what I mean, don't you? That this needs to be done?"

"What do you propose?" he asked, neither condemning nor endorsing the plan. He saw Annabeth turn her gaze upon him, disbelieving and accusing, all at once.

"_No." _Annabeth's voice was taking on a slightly desperate note. "I'm not going to be part of this."

The woman smiled grimly. "I think you will. After all...you don't want it to get into the papers that you're concerting with a known felon, do you? 'Annabeth de Burgh, accomplice to the Batman'. Not good for business, is it? And I bet it won't help your new boyfriend's reputation, either, will it?"

Fleetingly, Annabeth thought of Bruce, literally half a city—and figuratively an entire world—away, innocently, blissfully unaware of the madness threatening to engulf them all. She couldn't involve him in this; for once, he hadn't done anything to deserve his name dragged into the gutter. "You're _blackmailing _me?"

"Not yet."

Tension built between the two women, and finally, when Annabeth spoke, her tone indicated she was outflanked. "What do you suggest?"

"It's simple. I'll contact you when I have information. I want you to act on it, because I know you have connections to Commissioner Gordon." Trinity turned to the Batman. "And rumor has it that you do, too. Start investigating. I'll be in touch."

Finally, the Batman spoke. "It's a dangerous plan. There's no one to protect you if things go wrong."

"Nothing's going to go wrong. You don't even know who I am. Not yet, anyway." Trinity turned to Annabeth, grabbed her hand and thrust a wad of cash into it. "Sorry about the blank money order. Put this to good use." She began to back away. "Don't follow me, don't try to find out who I am. I'll be in touch."

And just like that, she was gone. She left Annabeth and the Batman standing in the darkness of the alley, listening to her footfalls as she darted away.

Annabeth glared at the Batman. "Are you _insane? _That's a civilian! You're letting her put herself in danger! You should be helping her get _out _of danger!"

Her voice was rising, he noted dispassionately. As he listened to her rail on against him, he also noticed that a late night fog was creeping its way into the alley, reducing visibility. He became, if possible, more alert, trying to focus on individual noises, but Annabeth's shrill voice was making it difficult for him.

"..._not _her fight! Do you know how many women they've killed?"

Slowly, he began to walk away from her, focusing his eyes further down the alley.

"-not even listening to me! We aren't your pawns!" Annabeth stopped for a moment as she realized that she was staring at his back, fifteen feet away. "Do NOT walk away from me!"

Her diatribe came to an abrupt end as she saw him turn around and begin to run towards her, his cape billowing behind him, and a few seconds later, he brought his body down low, ramming into her shoulder and chest as he barreled into her, his weight and momentum bringing them both to the filthy ground. He heard her grunt as he knocked the wind out of her, but any other noise was overpowered by the loud _crack _of gunshots ringing out in the alley. He stayed still for a moment, crouching down over Annabeth, who was struggling beneath him. "Hold still!" he commanded, straining to get a sense where the attack was coming from.

Another volley of gunshots split the air, and the Batman grunted in pain as he registered the impact of a bullet hitting his shoulder. The armor caught the brunt of it; there was no penetration, but he'd be sore as hell for a good week after-_if _they got out of the mess that had unexpectedly erupted. Cautiously, he came up out of his crouch, realized that his knee was digging into Annabeth's arm. He shifted his weight but kept low, quickly assessing the surroundings. No dumpsters or doorways nearby to provide shelter, so there was no choice between fight or flight. Had he been alone, fight would have been the only option, but with Annabeth here, flight it would have to be.

Annabeth struggled into a sitting position, rubbing her shoulder. Her face was pale, and fear made her features stand out in sharp contrast. "What's going on?"

He held up a hand to quiet her, and then disengaged his grappling gun from his utility belt. Before he could do anything else, however, there was another salvo of gunshots; thankfully, all of them missed, but one struck a window ten feet above them, and it exploded in a shower of wicked glass shards that came showering down upon them.

His reaction was, thankfully, lightning-fast; once more, he threw himself down low, jerking Annabeth beneath him and wrapping his body around hers, and doing his best to cover her with his cape and armored limbs, so as to absorb the rain of glass. He heard Annabeth cry out in pain beneath him, but before he could assess the damage, several shouts caught his attention.

_"It's him! It's the Batman, I can see him!"_

_"Don't kill! Just incapacitate!"_

Running footsteps were coming their way. They were out of time. The Batman aimed and fired his grappling hook, watching with satisfaction as it launched and attached itself to the rooftop of a building no small distance away. Alfred had assured him that the line was reinforced and could carry several hundred pounds; silently the Batman prayed that he had been serious. "Come on," he muttered to Annabeth. "Hold on and don't look down." His movements were fluid and without hesitation; nimbly he leapt to his feet and at the same time, hauled Annabeth up with him. She was dazed, that much he could see, but she had enough sense to latch on to him for dear life, and a moment later he had vaulted them into the air. Below, he could see almost half a dozen men closing in on where they had been mere seconds before. He checked to make sure Annabeth was hanging on—she was, like a monkey, keeping a tight grip on him and burying her head was buried in his armored chest, her eyes squeezed tightly shut—and so with his free hand, he managed to hurl a couple of batarangs down at the men. A moment later, he heard the promising roar of a small, controlled explosion. The explosive batarangs had been Alfred's idea, and this was the first time he had had the chance to use them. Nice to know they worked.

Higher and higher they flew as the line retracted, and a moment later, they came skidding to a halt on the rooftop of a building almost half a block away. Annabeth released her death grip on the Batman and staggered backwards, trying to get her bearings. As she crouched down on the roof, gasping, the Batman circled the area, making sure it was clear, and shot his grappling hook onto the next building. He didn't want to stay here; they were still in the Narrows, and it was clearly a hostile place.

"Annabeth!" he said sharply.

She didn't respond.

Swiftly he strode over to her and crouched down beside her. "Are you hurt?" He gripped her shoulder to get her attention, and saw her flinch. He had charged into her hard when the thugs had attacked ; there would be extensive bruising there. "Annabeth!"

Slowly she shook her head and began to struggle to her feet. "No...I'm fine." She glanced back at the direction from where they had come. "What happened? Who were those men?"

"Bounty hunters, probably. I'm not the most popular person down here. Come on." He stared off into the distance, calculating the rooftop path they would take. "We have to leave. Now."

"Oh god." Annabeth hadn't appreciated their mid-air flight. "Make it quick."

"I'll get you to your neighborhood. Hang on."

Annabeth had never realized how little she liked the sensation of flying until that night. For almost the entire time, she kept her eyes tightly closed, only opening towards the end as they made their way closer to the center of Gotham and the bright lights of the city began to burn against her eyelids. As she reluctantly opened one eye, then the other, she let out an involuntary gasp-Gotham had never looked so beautiful as it did just then, a blur of glittering, shimmering golden lights against the silky blackness.

A moment later, they landed on a low rooftop, and Annabeth quickly relinquished her hold. She looked up at the Batman.

"Fire escape's right there." He motioned behind him. "Your building is a block away." He aimed his grappling hook again in preparation for departure, but paused when he heard Annabeth's voice.

"Wait."

He looked at her, his mask and cowl hiding his surprise. She looked _furious._

"We didn't finish what we were talking about," she told him. "This is unfinished business, and we _will _discuss this, or I won't have anything to do with it, blackmail or not." She paused. "You'd better be at my place in fifteen minutes."

With that, she began to head down the fire escape—but paused long enough to yell, "And this time, you'd better knock."

* * *

After the mere hour that had just lapsed since she had said good-night to Latoria—_how did time pass so quickly when fighting for your life?—_it seemed strange for Annabeth to step back into the relative safety of her own home. And yet, it was quiet, dark, still-just as she left it when she left for work that morning, looking for all the world as though nothing awful ever happened, within its walls or without.

Annabeth knew better.

She slammed her door shut and sank to the floor, utterly spent. Her cat Wurzel meandered over, belly swinging gently side to side, but wandered away again as soon as she realized that no food would be forthcoming in the immediate future. Jed let out one low bark in greeting, but did not bestir himself from the couch.

For one ludicrous moment, she felt like she was going to cry. At some point, shock had set in, possibly to numb the terror that had engulfed her since the first sounds of gunfire. She had been in plenty of sticky situations, but never one with guns. And never in one that required she spend any time a few hundred feet in the air. Now the adrenaline was fading and normal emotions were beginning to set in. But resolutely, she took a deep and calming breath and scrambled to her feet; there was enough time for her to change into something a little less filthy. When the Batman had plowed into her and knocked her down, it had been into a very dirty, nasty gutter.

As she changed into yoga pants and a tank top, she realized she was bleeding. Panic almost set in-_had she been hit?–_but a cursory glance over her limbs revealed that a large amount of glass shards had embedded themselves into her right hand.

It was then that she heard the knock on the door—only one knock, loud and sharp. Cradling her hand awkwardly, she made her way back to the front door, peered through the peephole, and hauled the door open.

There was no one there.

She sighed and closed the door. She knew, she _absolutely knew, _that when she turned back around into her apartment, the Batman would be there.

And there he stood, looking ridiculously oversized and far too Gothic for her current decor.

"I knocked."

"You sure did." Annabeth walked around him and headed into the kitchen. She began opening cabinet doors, hauling out various items: a bowl, a glass, a bottle of whiskey. With a hand far steadier than he would have thought possible, given the ordeal she had just been through, she poured a generous amount into the glass and took a hefty swig. "You want some?"

Watching her try to soothe her nerves with alcohol was almost amusing. Alfred would have approved.

Suddenly, she turned, and he frowned as he saw her right side-her shoulder had began to swell up, angry and purple. "You're hurt."

"I got hit by a two-hundred-pound-plus tree trunk wearing _armor_." Annabeth took another gulp. "Damned straight I'm hurt."

His eyes traveled to the blood she was dripping on the floor. "You should go to the doctor."

Annabeth was having none of that. She headed into her bathroom and emerged a moment later with a bottle of peroxide, a pair of tweezers, a lighter, and some bandages. "I'm _not _going to the doctor." She lined the items up on her kitchen table, sat down, and started to go to work. He watched as she flicked open the lighter and held the tweezers over them for a few moments, and then as she doused her hand liberally with the peroxide. She flinched a little, but then mentally braced herself and began trying to extract the glass from her hands.

He watched, closely, and then, suddenly, sat down beside her.

"Make yourself at home." Alcohol may have steadied her nerves, but it was also making her even more snarky than usual.

He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled the tweezers from her hand. "The glass is in your right hand and you're right-handed. You're just going to push it in deeper."

He took her hand into his and spread out her fingers, examining the damage. Somehow, glass had worked its way into both the back of her hand and her palm, but none of it appeared to have been driven in too deep. Soon he was gently cradling her hand with one of his while he worked the glass out with the other, maneuvering the tweezers with surprising skill and grace, given the gloves he wore.

This did nothing to distract her. As he silently doctored her, Annabeth started in on him. "We don't know who that woman is. But we can't put her into danger like that."

He didn't pause in his work. "She's already in danger."

"We don't even know if we can help her!" She paused. "You don't even care about helping her. It's just another way to take down some of the big, bad guys, right?"

No response.

"This is a person!" Annabeth was beginning to plead. "She's not a fighter."

Finally, she provoked a reply. "I wouldn't be too sure of that." He softly massaged her hand, working more of the glass shards to the surface. "She seemed like she was looking for a fight."

"This is all just part of your bigger goal, isn't it? Everyone is just a tool for you to use and manipulate, another way to achieve your own end."

He tightened his grip on her hand. "Hold still," he said sharply as he concentrated on a particularly large shard of glass. It was in a little bit deep, and if he didn't get it out, it would cause a painful infection.

Annabeth went on. "These are people you're toying with! What happens when le Blanc and Donzetti find out who's leaking information? They found out all those other times! Don't you care? You just _barge _into peoples' lives and homes, uninvited, scaring them to death, wreaking havoc-and what good does it do, ultimately?" They both knew now that she was no longer referring to the events of earlier that night.

With a little more roughness than was strictly necessary, he pulled out the large shard, and saw with a tiny nudge of guilt that Annabeth had been momentarily silenced by the pain. Swiftly he doused the hand with more peroxide and blotted away the blood, and after that was done he wrapped it with the bandages. "It's done."

"Are you even going to answer me?" she demanded.

Hastily, he stood up, and she saw that she had provoked him, if not to anger, than at least to mild irritation. "I don't have to answer," he said flatly. "But I will ask you this: what else can we do? How many more of those women have to die before we figure this out?"

She didn't have an answer for him.

The Batman rose to leave, but then paused for a moment and turned back to her. With a light touch, he placed his hand on her bruised shoulder and said, "Soak a bandage in comfrey tea and wrap your shoulder in it. That will help the bruising."

Annabeth didn't turn around to watch him leave.

* * *

The next afternoon, Bruce coaxed her out for a hastily-arranged lunch. Alfred picked them up, and as they piled into the Rolls, Annabeth accidentally bumped her shoulder on the door and let out an involuntary groan.

Alfred glanced in the rearview mirror. "Alright, there, Miss Annabeth?"

"I'm fine, Alfred," Annabeth said through a pained smile. "Just a little sore. Bumped my shoulder."

Beside her, Bruce was pulling out a newly-purchased iPod and gleefully reviewing all of its features.

Alfred smiled sympathetically. "Bruises are nasty things. Awful to look at, hard to treat. Seems like I heard somewhere you should treat it with comfrey-soak a bandage in comfrey tea, I think. I'll have to look it up later."

A funny expression came over Annabeth's face. She glanced over at Bruce, still intent on his new gadget, and back to Alfred, who was now minding the traffic. She gave a mental shrug.

Suddenly Bruce looked up, concern written all over his face. He had been paying attention, after all. "How'd you hurt your shoulder?"

"Oh..." Annabeth paused, struggling to think of a plausible excuse. "I can be kind of clumsy-I fell down the stairs."

Bruce accepted it readily enough, but Annabeth cursed herself. _Of all the excuses, that was the best I could do? I guess this makes me a bat-tered woman._


	17. Chapter 17

September died, and with it died the very last traces of summer. All warmth had gone from the air, and sunshine faded to a distant memory as grey clouds gathered for their six-month tenure over the city. The days were chilly and rainy, and the nights were windy and downright cold. Despite the bleakness that Gotham wore like a sorrowful mantle, however, autumn was still a delightful time in the city. The change in the weather ensured that the smog and pollution were cleared away; too, it had banished the oppressive, cloying heat of midday, and the good people of Gotham began to creep out of their climate-controlled homes, offices, and stores to remember, once more, what pleasant weather felt like.

And Just as the soothing rhythm of the seasons remained the same, Gotham carried on its usual delinquent way, same as always, with a few variations.

At Gotham Memorial, Janey noticed a distinct decrease in the number of "ladies of the night" who came through the emergency room-it seemed that the vicious attacks had abated. At Safe Haven, the stream of clients was as steady as ever, but both Donna and Annabeth noticed less of them were prostitutes. On the streets, the Batman patrolled and could find nothing, no new clues about the Arrows. At the MCU, Commissioner Gordon closed his eyes and uttered a brief prayer of thanks that the killing spree appeared to have come to an end. In her new position as Donzetti's mistress, Trinity found herself well taken care of, if somewhat bored and ignored. At the Manor, Bruce and Alfred began aggressive research to single out businessmen with potential ties to the mob.

All of them worked hard, in their own way, intent on their own agendas and crusades; none of them relaxed their guard or fooled themselves into thinking it was anything other than the calm before the next violent storm. Just because they couldn't see the storm clouds didn't mean they weren't gathering.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Annabeth did not pause to notice or enjoy the change in the seasons. She barely registered the passing of time in its larger sense, only noted the passing of individual days and deadlines and duties, and all of the many things that still needed to be done-in Safe Haven, in the world, in her life. This autumn, she was even busier than usual: in addition to her two jobs and her volunteer work, she had started to teach survival skills to freshmen girls at Gotham University, and as well, there was her newly-found, and not entirely-embraced, social life. She and Bruce had managed to make several appearances about the city, but it was much more difficult to arrange than she had expected. She obligations and duties, had a number of , of course, and Bruce had a lot more commitments than she had assumed he would have. Nevertheless, the Gotham press managed to snag a few choice pictures, mainly of the two of them at a posh restaurant, or a gallery opening, or, on one memorable and unexpected occasion, at Ex Libris, the city's largest used book store.

Annabeth had to admit, she was a little surprised. Since their first memorable "date", Bruce had behaved himself remarkably well. As he had promised, no funny stuff, no passes, nothing that would make her feel uncomfortable—or, at least, more uncomfortable than she already felt about the whole situation. As he had promised, Bruce Wayne was being the perfect gentleman. And a tiny, tiny little piece of Annabeth was disappointed. It was only a matter of time before the press caught on to their little game, and also, only a matter of time before Bruce Wayne moved on to a piece of more willing and interested flesh. When Annabeth contemplated this, she felt a tiny surge of—she wasn't sure what. Ambivalence, perhaps, or a mixture of relief and disappointment.

At the moment, however, she was feeling neither relief nor disappointment towards her new friend, only a deep annoyance.

"You're kidding me." Annabeth said this flatly; she knew he wasn't kidding her. She could tell in his posture, how he stood before her desk and looked guilty, occasionally shifting his apologetic eyes to her before redirecting them away from her incredulous gaze. "You mean to tell me it's the seventeenth of October, your fundraiser is in exactly eight days, and _you haven't arranged anything yet?"_

Bruce had shown up at Safe Haven at a startlingly early hour that Friday morning, equipped with a briefcase filled with papers and information. He and Donna had closeted themselves away for half an hour, and then she had sent him on to Annabeth's office, looking sheepish and a little bit guilty. Now he was explaining to an already high-strung Annabeth that it had been a busy month, and he simply hadn't had the time to get the ball rolling with the fundraiser. One week to go, and nothing had been arranged.

"I talked it over with Donna," he tried to assure her. "She thinks you and I can knock everything out today. We just have to sit down, make some decisions, look at some lists, make some phone calls. It's going to be very simple."

Annabeth was trying very hard to keep her temper in check. "I was supposed to take the kids on a field trip today, to a hayride in Robinson Park. I can't do both."

"You won't have to. Donna's taking care of the field trip." Bruce thought he was giving her good news, but inexplicably, her face fell. "You'd rather pick hay out of your hair and clean up after kids? You know they're going to eat too many candied apples and throw up."

She gave him a filthy look. _"Fine. _What do we have to do?"

Having won, Bruce got right down to business and snapped open his briefcase. "Choose a menu. Choose a song line-up for the band. Decide on the flowers we want." He glanced up from the pile of papers that he had been sorting through. "What?"

Just as if Annabeth had come to the edge of the universe and simply stepped into the unknown space beyond, so her profound annoyance slipped into the space beyond, where she discovered weary resignation. "Three college degrees, and I'm babysitting a billionaire and planning his parties."

"How is babysitting me different than babysitting the clients' children?" Bruce demanded playfully.

"Today was supposed to be _fun." _Incredibly, Annabeth was almost sulking. "A hayride in a horse-drawn wagon, cavorting through a pumpkin patch, drinking apple cider, listening to cheesy ghost stories. You know, normal stuff that normal people do." She eyed the stack of papers and information that Bruce had piled on her desk. "Well, never mind. Let's get to work."

It was tedious, time-consuming work, and after an hour of debating whether or not to instruct the band to play only the Top 40 hits, Annabeth was willing to see why Bruce had been so eager to recruit her assistance. Trying to take all of this on by one's lonely self was not a delightful prospect; even now, with two people plowing through a month of work that had to be done in a day, it threatened to overwhelm them.

As the hours crept on, at one point Bruce looked up from the guest list and sighed dramatically. "Is it too late to scrap the whole thing and beg for pennies on the street corner?"

"I think I have a tin can in here, somewhere." Annabeth has begun to employ a grim humor and was doing her best to make a good show of it. But then, ""Why do _I _have to decide on the song list for the band? I haven't listened to pop music in _years. _Last time I listened to the Top Forty, Chubawumba was the thing."

"Would you rather decide on the menu?" Bruce offered. "We have a theme choice of Epicurean Western, Asian Fusion, Nouveau French...I've been staring at these menus for the past half hour."

"I've noticed. And I have no idea what to tell you. Can't Alfred do all of this?"

He didn't answer her right away. Although he was meant to be helping her, Bruce wasn't being very useful. He was perched in the seat that he had come to regard as his own, across from Annabeth, and was watching her work. She had swept her hair back into a messy half-ponytail, and had donned reading glasses; also, she had taken off her suit jacket, revealing those entrancing tattoos again. What was it about those tattoos that he found so appealing? Perhaps that they were so unexpected, so _not _in line with the image he had of Annabeth. There was a rough edge to her, something jagged and dangerous and all the more bewitching for its incongruity; it didn't fit in with the initial conservative image that Annabeth projected. No, this gritty, tattooed side of her was the _real _Annabeth, and the Batman in him responded to that. As for how Bruce Wayne responded—well, this hard-as-nails woman was not his normal fare; she was far more flavorful and textured and nuanced than the usual bland and unremarkable females of his acquaintance.

_"Bruce." _Annabeth was trying to get his attention; he had spaced out again. "Seriously. I have _no idea _what kind of food you should have at this thing. Why can't Alfred do it? I bet he's an old hat at this."

"Alfred is..." Bruce paused, trying to find a valid excuse. _Feverishly conducting research on any Gotham businessman who might have ties to the criminal underworld? Trying to provide some useful information to an overly-exacting and neurotic employer who has a thing for black kevlar? _"He's a little...under the weather this week. That's why he's not helping."

"Oh, that's too bad. Poor Alfred!" Annabeth was becoming increasingly fond of the English butler who followed Bruce like a shadow. "What's wrong with him?"

"Uuuuh..." He hadn't been prepared for that. "The vapors? Dropsy?"

The look that Annabeth gave him was withering. "Bruce, no one's had dropsy, since, like, the middle of the nineteenth century."

Bruce shrugged. "I guess I didn't ask him what was wrong." Sometimes, he really hated making himself look like such an asshole. "Look, don't worry about the food. The caterers gave me six different menus, and we just have to choose the one we want. As for the carnival food, that's all taken care of." He passed Annabeth the menus, and watched as she struggled to comprehend the words. "Foie gras? _Carpaccio?"_

"It's raw beef," he explained helpfully.

"I _k__now _what carpaccio is!" she snapped. "You tried to get me to try it at that restaurant last week, what was it called, oh, yes, _Vulva's." _Even now, her mouth pursed in distaste at the memory. "I'm just saying this: you're throwing a party and a fundraiser in honor of the Gotham City Police Department. You really think these men and women are going to be all over the foie gras?" She was getting edgy. "Where's my coffee?"

Bruce had secreted away her mug half an hour ago, and didn't feel the need to disclose its location to her. The last thing Annabeth needed was more caffeine. "It's in their honor, sure. But don't forget, the people that we're inviting to this fundraiser are people with_funds. _We need to cater to them, too."

"We'd better compromise, then, hadn't we? Call the caterers and tell them they'd damn well better come up with a menu that's blue blood meets blue collar, or we're going to have a socialist revolution on our hands come Saturday." Annabeth glared at him fiercely.

"Why do I have to do it?" Now Bruce was whining.

"Because I'm delegating. Either that, or you go through the Top Forty lists of the last twenty years and decide which Hanson and Spice Girls songs you want."

He needed no other incentive to follow her orders. "Where's the phone?"

Through the afternoon and well into the evening they worked, growing ever closer to completing the plans. At one point, Annabeth looked up from the current task of deciding on floral arrangements. "Isn't this a little last minute for some of these vendors?"

"Not really." Bruce was taking a break from the guest lists. The invitations had gone out weeks ago, but he wanted to make last minute additions. "They're used to dealing with annoying rich people. Believe it or not, this is a fairly easy job. Some of the parties and dinners and soirées are absolute nightmares."

"Why's that?"

"The women who arrange them are a bunch of ultra-competitive divas. If Mrs. Stepford has an ice-sculpture at her party, then Mrs. Trump has to have an ice sculpture _garden _at hers. That type thing." Bruce made a face. "It's completely disgusting. The people we're inviting are so rich, they buy new yachts every time one gets wet."

"Says the man who burnt down his house for kicks and giggles." Annabeth paused to rub her shoulder gingerly. The bruising had faded, but the soreness remained. "How did that happen, anyway?"

"A misunderstanding," Bruce said shortly. He felt rather than saw Annabeth's look of surprise. Wisely, she did not press the issue; she had learned to recognize his moods and reticence.

By seven that evening, everything was accomplished. The caterers, the waitstaff, the floral arrangements, the musicians, the final additions to the guest lists—they had made all the arrangements. Simultaneously, both Bruce and Annabeth leaned back in their seats, emitting exhausted sighs of satisfaction.

Annabeth allowed him one small smile. "I can't believe we managed to get this all done."

"Me neither." In all truth, Bruce had never planned a single party; Alfred always took care of everything. More and more, he was beginning to realize the immense amount of work Alfred shouldered to maintain the Wayne image, manor, and lifestyle, to say nothing of the Batman's unceasing demands.

"So what's going to happen at this fundraiser?" Annabeth wanted to know. "I know the ultimate aim is to secure permission for the Take Back the Night rally, but how, exactly, will that work?"

Bruce's plan was simple and had at least a fifty percent chance of failure. "Easy," he grinned. "We get Mayor Garcia and Commissioner Gordon liquored up, and then we blindside them. Butter them up with the fundraiser and the carnival for the kids, and leave them with no leg left to stand on."

"You are a master strategist," Annabeth said dryly. "You really think that's going to work?"

"I really do." Bruce seemed unconcerned. "When it comes to throwing money at a problem, my aim is true. Money sweetly oils the wheels of bureaucracy, and I'm fairly certain Garcia and Gordon will be on board once they realize that the Wayne Foundation will be sponsoring everything, including the police officers' overtime. So, I get them liquored up, Donna starts sweet-talking them, you maintain a diplomatic silence—difficult though I know that will be for you—and _voilà! _Soon we'll be arranging a city-wide rally that promotes awareness of all the bad things men do."

Once again, his flippant side had made an appearance. "Do you have to be so cavalier about this?" Annabeth demanded. "This is serious."

"Seriously, we're ready." Bruce glanced at his watch. "And with plenty of time to spare. I was going to check out that new martini bar, the one right by Wayne Towers. Want to join me?"

"Definitely not." Annabeth had had all she could take of Bruce for one day. "I'm going home, taking a bubble bath, and sleeping. Guess you'll have to find someone else."

"Kind of hard, seeing as how, according to the press, I've committed to one girl." Bruce feigned disappointment. "Geez, Annabeth, you're really cramping my style here."

Annabeth was gathering her things. "Yes, I know. This was all my idea, and it sent your social life flying into the toilet, ass over teakettle. I'm such a wretch. Let's just never mind the fact that you ruined my hayride today." She smiled a little to take the sting out of her words. "I'm going home. Good night, Bruce."

* * *

For any normal person, the next day, Saturday, would have been a day to spend away from the office, a day to spend in play, or at least in half-hearted chores. Not so for Annabeth, who headed back to Safe Haven first thing in the morning, intending to put in a long day of uninterrupted productivity. In point of fact, there was very little that was incredibly pressing; sometimes, Saturdays were just plain lonely, and a day at Safe Haven was always preferable to a day spent rattling about her own condo, or else playing third wheel to whatever plans Janey and Jason had cooked up.

Her day of uninterrupted productivity encountered its first and only interruption just past noon, when Annabeth pulled her attention away from the medical journal she was reading to see Bruce, peering past her open door.

"Why did I have a feeling you'd be here?" he asked.

"Why did I have a feeling you'd be here, tormenting me?" Annabeth's retort was quick—too quick, in fact. She _had _been half-expecting him to show up and ruin her peace; it was the Bruce Wayne way. "What's up?"

He eased his way into the office; she had begun to recognize his body language by now, and knew that he was about to spring an invitation on her, or wheedle her into something. Whenever he suggested they do something, his body movements became slower, more languid; his voice dropped its flippant tone but still remained cheerful. "Come out with me." He phrased it as an urging, not a demand.

"Come out with you?" Annabeth's lips quirked into a slightly exasperated smile. "Come out where? If I agree, I could somehow end up in Aspen, or on a yacht in some subtropical place that's still in the throes of hurricane season."

"It's a surprise. But in the city limits...a 'thank you' for yesterday. Please?"

Annabeth glanced at the stack of journals on her desk, and then over at Bruce, who stood in the doorway, his expression eager. "Well..." she sighed. "I don't have anything hugely important. I suppose I can play along..."

And play along she did, which was how, forty-five minutes later, she found herself staring at a fleet of horse-drawn hay wagons. Every October, the city offered hayrides at Robinson Park, along with a hastily-erected "pumpkin patch"–really, just pumpkins and gourds imported from the countryside—as well as various other autumnal delights, and that was what she had missed out on yesterday. It was everything one could expect of a normal, perfect autumn tableau, and it seemed Bruce was determined it should be hers.

"This was your surprise?" Annabeth asked Bruce, who stood beside her, eagerly awaiting her reaction.

"What do you think?"

"Bruce...I'm overwhelmed. You've given me an enormous pile of hay." Annabeth paused and gazed up at the haywagons again. "You sure do know how to woo a girl. Really...I'm utterly love-struck."

"Come on." Bruce tugged her hand and led her to one of the wagons. "I rented one for the afernoon…no one gets on this one but us." He clambered up onto the slippery hay and extended a hand down to Annabeth. "Are you going to stand down there and pretend cool disinterest all day, or are you going to come up here and engage in cheesy fun?" The truth was, this was pushing the limits of his own tolerance, but he had seen Annabeth's disappointment yesterday, and was determined to make amends, even if it meant this...foray into normalcy. It had been worth it, however, when he told Alfred of his intentions; the look on his butler's face had been priceless.

With surprising ease, Bruce took Annabeth's arm and half-hauled, half-helped her onto the hay wagon; as she reached the top of the haystack, she temporarily disappeared into the pile, only to surface a moment later with several straws of hay sticking askew from her hair.

"I find you much less intimidating now," Bruce smirked, without telling her why.

Ten feet below them, the haywagon began to slowly move.

"This has to be the oddest not-date I've ever been on," Annabeth sighed. She settled back into the hay, however, prepared to play along.

Bruce began digging through the hay. "I also brought us..."

"Apple cider!" Annabeth exclaimed, sitting up again and looking, delighted, at the enormous jug of amber liquid Bruce had produced. "Seriously, Bruce, what's all this about?" Her voice sharpened with anxiety. "Did you do something stupid? You didn't mistakenly proposition the Mayor's wife, did you? Or donate a fleet of Humvees to the EPA?"

"Nothing like that," he assured her. "I just...felt bad. You looked really disappointed to be missing out on that field trip yesterday."

"Half of the appeal is watching the kids enjoy themselves." Annabeth pointed out. She glanced around down at the hay, and then over at Bruce, who was as sweetly patient as ever, and she relented. "This is incredibly…kind of you, Bruce. Thank you."

Bruce ignored her gratitude and focused on one of her previous statements. "Is it that important to you? Seeing the kids have a good time?"

"It is." Annabeth's response was immediate. "There's so little good in this damned world…everything's a struggle, and our kids are already dealing with so much awful stuff, it's nice to be able to give them _something _that's simple and normal, something that makes them smile." She didn't look at Bruce as she said this; her eyes were staring off into the distance, at an unseen point, and her mind was wandering down a road that she walked alone.

As the wagon began to lumber its way through the heart of Robinson Park, Bruce and Annabeth ceased their conversation and sat in companionable silence, gazing outwards at the various scenes of the autumn afternoon: couples picnicking, parents chasing their children around, mothers talking to each other as they blocked the jogging path with their enormous, tank-like strollers. Overhead, low grey clouds scuttled across the sky, pushed along by a stiff breeze which also rattled through the leaves of tall, dignified maple and sycamore trees. Annabeth tilted her face upwards to gaze at these trees, and watched as several of the reddish-brown leaves were torn from their branches and driven into a lonely exile by the wind. "Bruce?"

"Hmmm?" Bruce was watching the leaves too. He couldn't remember the last time he had spent an afternoon in enforced idleness, with no specific agenda demanding constant vigilance and calculated moves.

"You ever wish your life turned out differently?"

It was a very odd question coming from her "I can't imagine why you would think something like that." Bruce told her, genuinely a little taken aback.

"Just, I don't know, maybe a little intellectual exercise." The studied indifference in Annabeth's voice indicated that the question was anything but an intellectual adventure. "I just wonder, sometimes, if your life turns out differently, if different events and circumstances dictate a completely different direction, you'd still turn out the same."

It was an interesting question, and one that was more relevant than Annabeth realized. Bruce considered the question for a moment; thought about his mother and father and a frightened eight-year-old boy and pearls and blood and loneliness and loss and decisions which inevitably led to more loneliness and loss. "I don't know. Maybe we would turn out differently...but then, I think the seeds of who we're supposed to become are planted early on, and we grow into those people at an early age."

"But deprive any plant of light and water, or plant it in a harsh environment, and it grows stunted, thwarted, warped." Clearly, Annabeth had abandoned hypotheticals. "I guess it just goes back to nature versus nurture."

"Do _you _wish your life had turned out differently?" Bruce sat up straighter—not an easy task when supported by hay—and looked over at her.

Annabeth smiled a sad little smile, heartbreaking in its feebleness. "I think it would be hard not to wish that."

"But then, would you have become you—_this _Annabeth, this person who's here now?" Bruce tried to coax more cheer out of her.

"If I didn't become _this _Annabeth, the Annabeth that _would _be here would probably be a lot nicer to you." Annabeth's attempt at a joke was weak, but at least she was present in the moment, not reliving some past secret pain. She settled back into the hay, crossed her arms behind her head, and closed her eyes. "But _this _Annabeth, she let her life circumstances define her and her choices. Take away my work, my life, and I'll have nothing left. There'd be no Annabeth, no identity, no life. Nothing."

They fell silent again, but this time, it was much a much shorter silence.

"Annabeth?"

She opened her eyes and looked over at him, looming overhead at a funny angle from her vantage point. "What?"

"How _did _Safe Haven become your work?"

Surprisingly, her defenses didn't go up; she didn't get sharp, or cagey. But neither was she particularly forthcoming. "It's a long story."

"I'm stuck on top of a hay wagon for an afternoon," Bruce said wryly. "I've got time. It's either this or trying to find a way to get down without getting straw stuck in my orifices."

"How old were you when your parents died?"

The change in subject was unexpected and abrupt, yet deeply personal, all the more coming from Annabeth. "I was eight when my parents were _murdered_."

If she noted his correction, she didn't indicate it, other than a small nod. "You were eight. Which means you had eight years with them."

"Yes." He didn't see where this was going, but he marveled at her ability to turn a personal question back on the person who asked it.

"Were you happy? Did they take care of you? Do you have good memories of them?"

Annabeth was probling a very raw wound, long ago stitched up, but never fully healed. "I have memories of them," Bruce told her. "Not a lot. But I remember being happy. Being loved. And then, I remember watching it all torn away from me. I remember the loss of reality...to live in a world where my parents, my _good _parents were killed, it completely obliterated my concept of the world as a place of justice and beauty. Because they had taken good care of me, I was able to fully comprehend what the loss of them meant."

For a moment, she looked at him with something akin to tenderness. "I honestly don't know what's worse—to lose the parents who love you, to see them die…or to live to see your own parents fail and reject you. You had eight years with parents who loved you…I had two years with my mother before she left me."

"Left you?" Bruce repeated, even though he already knew at least the basic facts. "Not died, not killed..._left?"_

Annabeth smiled. "Left me. She was my mother for two years, and then she disappeared. I never saw her again."

"How do you know she left?" Bruce hated to ask, but he wanted to solve the mystery that was Annabeth. "Terrible things happen all the time. How do you know she wasn't hurt, or kidnapped?"

"No one kidnaps a white-trash woman like that." Annabeth seemed grimly amused at the mere thought. "She left my father, and she chose to leave me behind, with him...I have no memories of her, good or bad. No pictures, no cards, no physical proof, other than this body," she gestured herself, "that I had a mother."

"Why did she leave?" Even though he knew what Alfred had told him, there had been no emotion attached to the original story. Now Bruce was hearing the story from Annabeth, and it sounded entirely different. Emotionally damaged as he was, he wasn't accustomed to truly grasping the devastation of others.

"My mother had a very good reason for leaving, I'll give her that." Annabeth's mouth twisted into a tiny grimace. "She left because my father was a bastard, a nasty piece of work, and because she was tired of being scared and hurt. So she left. The kicker was that she left me with him." Annabeth stared straight at Bruce. "She chose to leave me behind. Our mothers are supposed to have this freakish, intuitive, over-powering love that conquers everything...and yet, my mother didn't. What does it mean when your own mother can't love you enough to try to save you from a terrible life?"

At that moment, Bruce wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and shelter her from the sorrows of the world. "What happened to your father?"

"Hmph." Annabeth looked vaguely disgusted. "At least with him, there's closure. After my mother left, he raised me, more or less. Or, really, his various girlfriends did. Drug-addicts, most of them, but they were surprisingly kind when they were sober. I got really good at looking out for myself." A distant look crept into Annabeth's eyes. "I was a neighborhood hellion. And then, when I turned six, my dad was arrested. A drug raid, I think—I never really got the details. Social Services came in right away, swept me off to a foster home. And I never saw my dad again."

"You didn't see him in jail?"

"He never requested to see me. I was...just an inconvenience to him. A minor detail. And he died a few years later. I was nine, with no parents. Do you know how that feels, Bruce?" She answered herself. "I guess you do know that, at least a little. But to be rejected and abandoned by your mother, and then neglected and ignored by your father? When parents fail you like that, that's the most primal wound of all. It's a wound that never stops bleeding." Annabeth chuckled, but there was no mirth. "I told you, Bruce. If Gotham had trailer parks, that's where I would have been born." She turned away from his silent, probing stare, not wanting to see the disgust, or worse, the compassion, or the pity, in his eyes.

After a moment, she felt his hand on her shoulder, resting gently. After a moment, he lightly touched her chin and guided her face back towards him; when their gaze met, Bruce smiled, comfortingly. "You're Annabeth," he told her. "A child of Gotham. And that's what I care about. All of the rest that happened to you was what made you who you are, and you shouldn't be ashamed of you." He stroked her cheek with a calloused thumb. "I know I'm not."

A sudden wind gust broke into the moment as Annabeth shivered, wrapping her jacket tighter around herself. "Anyway, the rest you know, at least a little. I was shunted about from home to home. Some were okay, one or two were absolutely awful." She saw Bruce's look of curiosity and elaborated. "Some foster families take in children so that they can get money from the government, and are absolutely horrible to the children. Every now and then, you'll read some horror stories. And then, some foster families have sexual predators." A sudden memory made her frown. "I had a friend in the foster system, Lucy. The oldest son in her foster family raped her almost every night when she was fourteen."

Bruce looked at her, startled. "...you weren't...?" he didn't want to finish the sentence. "That didn't happen to you, did it?"

"None of my foster families sexually abused me. But there were a couple of foster parents that were a little too generous in their discipline, and then I just made it worse by acting out, asshole child that I was." Annabeth shook her head. "It's an shitty world sometimes. These kids are sent to foster homes, already broken, and a lot of the times, they just don't get fixed. They have all sorts of traumas and issues, and sometimes they're sent to homes that make it worse. And even if they get a good home, what happens when they hit seventeen? They're on their own, ill-equipped, no support system. It's a horrible cycle."

"It's not what happened to you," Bruce reminded her.

"No, it's not. I avoided that fate by sheer, dumb luck." Annabeth always reminded herself of that, _there but for the grace of god..._"I ended up with a good foster family, and a good social worker, and somehow, we managed to forge some sort of future. I guess I just got fed up with being a hellraiser. I started to behave, get good grades...I got a Wayne scholarship-thank you, Bruce-for economically disadvantaged kids...and I decided I should be a social worker, too."

Bruce remembered Annabeth's words from before _"...this Annabeth, she let her life circumstances define her and her choices. Take away my work, my life, and I'll have nothing left. There'd be no Annabeth, no identity, no life. Nothing..." _Gently, he stroked her face again, relishing the feel of her skin. "Could you ever be anything else?"

"It's all I am. It's all I know." Annabeth said this with a certain defiant pride; she had made her decision, and all she knew to do was follow it through to its bitter, futile, lonely end.

In the distance, a father and mother were playing with their children, romping through a pile of dead leaves. Their shrieks of laughter echoed in the crisp air. Bruce and Annabeth watched them for a moment, and then Bruce tried to jolly her. "Look on the bright side. You can always have a kid of your own, try to do better than your own parents did. I bet you'd be a great mom."

She turned and looked at him once more. "No luck there, I'm afraid. No babies for me. Couldn't have them if I wanted to."

Bruce looked at her in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Annabeth averted her gaze. "I was pregnant...a long time ago. It turned out to be an ectopic pregnancy, and a lot of things went wrong. We didn't catch it right away, and I ended up getting pretty sick...and there was some damage. I was so young—I had just eighteen. Anyway, a while back, right after I started working at Safe Haven and got insurance, I decided to find out for certain. I went to a specialist, they poked and prodded and did some tests...and they said it wasn't likely I could get pregnant. Not impossible, but not likely. So..." she shrugged. "No family for me. Now or ever."

There was nothing Bruce could say, no gesture of comfort he could make. Annabeth's life, it seemed, was over in many ways before it had ever really begun.

Annabeth smiled understandingly. "You don't have to say anything. I can see your compassion, and that's enough. Besides," she added, "of all the shit that's gone down in my life, this, I've made my peace with most easily. You can't easily mourn what you never had...even if you do want it."

"Do you?" he asked, his voice low.

Slowly Annabeth nodded. "I do. But I don't think that's what's in the cards for me. It's not likely that I'm ever going to have a family. And that's okay with me...it has to be. I came to terms with it...Safe Haven is my family. The women and children that I'm trying to help, they're my family."

Bruce understood the sentiment all too well; he also knew that it was cold comfort in the dark night. This was not something he could share with Annabeth, however; and so he did the only thing he could think of in lieu of useless words. He slipped an arm around her shoulder; with surprise, he noted that she didn't stiffen up. Her body was warm and yielding, and so slowly, he pulled her to him until she was nestled in the crook of his shoulder, each of them drawing warmth and comfort from the other.

Overhead, the clouds darkened to a stormy lavender-grey, but even as they did, a weak ray of golden sunlight filtered through and briefly basked the forlorn couple in a thin ray of cold light.

There was nothing more to say.

The wagon trundled on.


	18. Chapter 18

October 25th, the day of the fundraiser, finally arrived, looking anything but promising. By 9 AM, as the carnival rides and booths began to be set up by the surprisingly clean, toothy carnies, the sun had yet to make an appearance. Bruce stood at the window of his bedchamber and gazed out the lead-glass panes at the buzzing activities on the grounds, and then up at the iron-grey sky. Well, what could he expect? Gotham City was nothing if not predictable in its persistence in adhering to the most depressing setting possible. It didn't matter; short of rain, nothing would spoil the fun of Gotham's finest and their children.

His shower was long and steamy; a couple of times, he nearly dozed off on his feet. He had been out until almost four in the morning, kept busy averting various petty crimes. The streets were unusually devoid of anything major, and that made him uneasy, and filled what little sleep he got with anxious dreams of unnamed dangers.

By the time he was out of the shower and getting dressed, Alfred was entering his bedchamber prepared with fresh idle banter. "You know, Master Wayne, if a bomb were to fall on Wayne Manor today, Gotham City would be paralyzed."

Bruce stood in front of the mirror, smoothing back his hair, and as Alfred made his remark, their eyes met in the glass. "You can be a real killjoy, you know that, Alfred?"

"I merely follow my master's lead," Alfred smiled. "In all seriousness, Master Wayne, you've got the Commissioner, the Mayor, and several state and local politicians here today. It's rather fortunate the Joker's locked away in Arkham; he'd have himself quite a ball."

"Now you're just _trying _to jinx things." Bruce turned around. "How do I look?"

Alfred eyed the young man, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. "You look like someone who's about to frolic with a hundred children who are descending on his property like so many hellspawn. Not nearly as compelling as your night-time garments."

"With any luck, those garments won't need to be used today." Bruce straightened the cuffs on his shirt. "All of the public rooms are ready?"

"All, sir." Alfred looked offended. "Have I ever been remiss in ensuring that Wayne Manor offers nothing but the most impeccable hospitality?"

"Settle down, Alfred." Bruce smiled as he headed out of the master bedchamber, Alfred following hard on his heels. "I just want to make sure everything runs smoothly today."

"With all due respect, sir." Something in Alfred's voice compelled Bruce to pause in his stride. "Is this part of an elaborate scheme to reform Gotham from the bottom up...or is this an elaborate scheme to win the heart of Miss de Burgh?"

"Neither." Bruce's grin was mischievous. "It's an elaborate plot to find you a date." But he avoided answering Alfred's question, and continued down the corridor towards the grand staircase. "Annabeth and her boss Donna are going to be here any minute." He hurried off, leaving Alfred at the head of stairs, gazing thoughtfully after him.

* * *

"My god, these are some posh houses."

Annabeth did not respond to Donna. She was curled up in a tight ball in the passenger's seat of Donna's Jeep Cherokee, holding on for dear life. It had been a long time since she had ridden along with Donna, and now she remembered why-her boss was hell on wheels. She drove like a maniac.

Donna glanced over at Annabeth and rolled her eyes. "Pull the stick out of your ass, Annabeth, and stop being a wuss. Mommy's not going to get us killed, is she, Timmy?" She directed this last part to Timothy, her beautiful, tow-headed son who sat in the back seat, happy to have his busy, glamorous mother for a whole day. He giggled in reply.

The little boy had been born to Donna four years ago. He was the apple of his mother's eye, her pride and joy and living, breathing proof that a single woman could rear an intelligent, well-adjusted child. He was sweet and sunny of disposition, and there were times when Annabeth wandered how he had been born into Gotham. He seemed too good for this place.

"Jesus!" Donna ejaculated. "These houses are enormous; they must have hundreds of rooms in them. And I bet the people who live in them only have one or two children, tops."

"Waste," Annabeth grunted, then clamped her mouth shut once more, not trusting herself to say anything else. She was beginning to feel a little wave of nausea building within her as she watched the stately trees and majestic houses swoosh past.

"It _is _wasteful. And it's so far from the city!" In Donna's opinion, this was the most offensive and tasteless part of it all. "And I bet most of these people have penthouses in the city and live there most of the time, just like Bruce does." She kept a sharp eye on Annabeth as she delivered this last remark, and sure enough, Annabeth's curiosity overcame all else.

"Bruce still stays in the city most of the time? How do you know?"

"People talk," Donna said cryptically. "Well, it makes sense. He's at Safe Haven some of the time, and he's at Wayne Towers even more...add in his social life, and I guess it's a long haul back here to the Palisades. But from what I hear, he pulls a lot of very late nights."

That Bruce spent a fair amount of time at his penthouse did make a certain amount of sense...but Annabeth still had the suspicion that something wasn't adding up. This suspicion was confirmed a moment later as Donna carried on. "What's going on with the two of you, anyway? I could swear he has a thing for you, but at the same time, it seems like he's still playing the field..."

Donna was fishing for information, but Annabeth didn't take the bait. "Bruce and I are doing just what you wanted us to do. We're giving the press something nice to talk about." If he was still playing the field, at least he was being discreet about it. When it came time for them to "break up", hopefully it wouldn't make it into the tabloids.

"Ann-Beth has a boyfriend?" Timmy piped up from the backseat.

Annabeth gave Donna a dirty look, and Donna shrugged. "What can I say? He's too smart for his own good."

Turning back to smile at Timmy, Annabeth told him, "I don't have a boyfriend. I have a friend. Just a friend. His name is Bruce, and you're going to meet him soon. He's very nice."_And handsome and kind of sweet and obscenely rich and a little too appreciative of women, damn him._

Timmy considered Annabeth's words for a moment. "Are you guys gonna kiss?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Donna!" Annabeth said accusingly. "Can't you muzzle him? He's going to _embarrass _me." She turned back to Timmy. "No one is going to kiss. We're not kissing friends."

Donna smirked.

"Why not?" Timmy asked. "Mommy has kissing friends-"

"Okay, Mister, that's enough talk about kissing. You've got a few years left before that's your problem." Donna decided to nip this conversation in the bud. "Our Bruce is quite the enigma, don't you think?" she asked Annabeth in a lower tone of voice.

Annabeth "mmmed" noncommittally.

"He's a playboy _philanthropist._" Donna found this an amusing combination. "That, we knew. But...he's actually smart. And he lets people assume otherwise. He plays up to it, actually. I bet that serves him well in the boardroom. And yet...I know next to nothing about him. He's an unknown quantity. Have you gotten to know him?"

"Not really." Annabeth thought for a moment. "He lets you get so close, and then—that's it, you know? No closer."

"My word, you two must have so much to talk about." Donna smiled gently. "You two are more alike than you know."

"That curdles my blood. But actually..." Struggling to put her thoughts into words, Annabeth was hesitant to say the wrong thing. "You know, I get the impression sometimes that he's a very unhappy person."

"He watched someone murder his parents when he was eight years old, Annabeth. He watched his parents bleed out all over the sidewalk. I doubt that really does a lot to stabilize a person's psyche and emotional well-being." Donna's voice was beginning to rise a little, and she caught herself, glancing back to make sure Timmy hadn't overheard. But he was busy staring out the window, absorbed by the scenery. "I just want you to watch out, Annabeth. I think Bruce Wayne's a good guy, but I don't know what his story is. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Oh, _that's _rich!" Annabeth crowed. "_You _threw me into his path. _You _told me to spend time with him, go out on pseudo-dates with him. Now you're telling me what, exactly? That he's an emotionally unstable womanizer? That I'm going to get hurt?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. Just...from one woman to another, be careful. You're not only my employee, Annabeth, but my protégé and my friend, and I don't want you to get entangled or in over your head."

Annabeth's lips curled up in a sneer of amused scorn. "You're basing all this on the assumption that I'm falling for Bruce Wayne, and that's where you're misguided."

For years, Donna had worked side-by-side with Annabeth, had come to know her and her baggage and her quirks; had grown accustomed to the younger woman's prickly standoffishness, her aversion to relationships, her emotional distance. She knew Annabeth well, and she knew now that Annabeth was lying-to herself more than anyone.

* * *

Every human being wants to feel as though they have a purpose. Every person wants to feel that there is a point to their lives, that they are making a difference, that there is a reason for their presence upon the earth. Everyone wants to leave a legacy, achieve a certain measure of immortality. Not everyone can articulate it—whether through a lack of education or introspection, or else through a misguided sense that something, be it money or birthright, or power, has already established for them a purpose. But regardless of whether or not one is aware of this need, or whether they are capable of articulating it, it exists all the same.

Even in the case of the wealthy, the powerful, the celebrities, this compulsion exists. Bruce and Alfred both knew it; both understood it, both had witnessed it many, many times in their lives, and they ruthlessly exploited it when the opportunity arose. The aimless, idle rich needed a purpose, an outlet for their thwarted energies-why not throw a fundraiser to make them feel worthy and virtuous? Offer a damned fine party, offer good food and entertainment and an opportunity for a tax write-off, and everyone came out of it happy. And a fundraiser for the Gotham PD? What worthier cause than that?

It was difficult _not _to harbor a certain hostile cynicism towards the fundraising scene. Bruce did his best to keep a pleasant, jocular face through the entire event, but inside, he was filled with disgust at the ostentatiousness and the waste. As he watched the scores of wealthy guests mingle, gossip, laugh, and celebrate their own perfect lives, he made a mental note to ask Alfred the final costs and then write a check to some charity for the same amount. This was ridiculous.

By eight o'clock that evening, the majority of the guests had arrived. In addition to the many wealthy and titled guests, close to five dozen Gotham City police were there with their partners; their children were still frolicking their way through the carnival being held out on the Manor grounds. The Mayor was there with his beautiful and somewhat icy wife; also present was Commissioner Gordon, although his wife was conspicuously absent.

Waitstaff circulated with trays of beer and champagne; a very talented and regionally famous cover band was playing in the background. Amazingly, despite the deep economic divide between the wealthy and the cops of Gotham, they were having no difficulties in mingling; there was too much fun to be had for anyone to hold themselves aloof.

Annabeth and Donna appeared on the scene a little later. They slipped in, unnoticed, and Annabeth scanned the crowds until she spotted Bruce at the edge of the room, engrossed in conversation with the Mayor and the Commissioner.

"Come on," she muttered to Donna. "I think he's setting the trap."

Together the two women made their way through the crowds, Annabeth concentrating on keeping her breathing deep and even. She was determined not to be overwhelmed by the crowds tonight. After a few moments, they approached the group of men, and while Donna simply sidled up to the Mayor and the Commissioner and introduced herself, Annabeth chose not to announce her presence to them. Instead, she simply placed a hand on Bruce's arm. "Hey. Sorry we're a little late."

He smiled down at her. "What was the delay?"

"Timmy," Annabeth explained. "He ate too much cotton candy at the carnival and got a bellyache, so we had to sit with him for a bit. He's asleep in the bedchamber that Alfred took us to earlier."

Bruce had enjoyed meeting Donna's precocious young son, although..."I didn't even know Donna had a son," he remarked quietly to her as they watched Donna begin to charm the Mayor.

"She doesn't broadcast the fact. She's an awesome mother, though, and she dotes on him." Annabeth grinned as she admitted, "I do, too."

"Who's the father?"

Annabeth chuckled. "No one you know—well, maybe that's not true. Donna went to a sperm bank for Timmy. Whoever the dad is, he's got some good genes."

"Timmy looks a little like you." Bruce thought for a moment. "Not much, just around the eyes."

"You know, you're not the first person who's said that. I don't see it, though." Pride shone in Annabeth's eyes for a moment. "He and I took to each other as soon as we met. Donna made me his godmother and guardian, did you know that? I take my duties very seriously. He learns a lot from me."

"I see. Is that where he learned the term 'kissing friends'?"

"Oh, christ." Annabeth reddened. "Did he-? I mean, what did...oh, dear."

Bruce laughed. "The funniest things embarrass you. Don't worry, he just asked me if I had any kissing friends."

"Four years old, and he's asking that." Annabeth shook her head, and then she redirected her attention to Donna, the Mayor, and the Commissioner. Bruce followed suit, and gently interrupted.

"Mayor Garcia, Commissioner Gordon." He waited until he had the attention of everyone in the group. "I'd like you to meet Annabeth de Burgh. A colleague of Donna's, and a good friend of mine."

Jim Gordon nodded. "We've met, haven't we, Annabeth?" He smiled gently, and Annabeth blessed him for his tact. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Mayor Garcia seemed less friendly. He merely nodded at Annabeth, his dark eyes glittering. "We've been hearing a lot about you lately, Miss de Burgh. You certainly seem to be making a few appearances in the press." He was clutching a crystal glass filled with amber liquid, and Annabeth suspected that this was not his first drink of the evening. Garcia turned back to Bruce. "You certainly do like a charity case to be dressed in a skirt, don't you, Wayne?"

An awkward silence settled on the group as the mayor's implications uncoiled and bit at them with the venom of a deadly adder. Annabeth looked incensed, Donna mildly surprised, Gordon distinctly uncomfortable. But it was Bruce Wayne who deftly smoothed over the rough atmosphere. He shrugged and gave a goofy grin. "I have to admit, it's a lot easier to listen to social issues when the person talking about them is easy on the eyes." He put an arm around Annabeth's waist and drew her close, and it was only the sharp glare of Donna that kept Annabeth from jerking away. "But Annabeth and Donna have really opened my eyes to a lot of the issues in Gotham. That's why I'm having this fundraiser; the Gotham police can certainly use the funds, can't they?"

Gordon eagerly stepped in to help out. "We can, Wayne, and we appreciate it. More than you can possibly know."

A waiter bearing a tray of champagne flutes passed by, and Bruce summoned him over and relieved him of his burden, distributing the glasses among the group. As he passed Annabeth the glass, she caught a look at his eyes; with a jolt of awareness, she saw the anger blazing in them. Garcia had made an enemy, whether or not he was aware of it.

Gordon was still talking. "It's incredibly generous of you, Wayne. Not only for sponsoring this, but for the example you're setting."

Garcia took a hefty gulp from his glass, apparently unaware of, or indifferent to, the fact that he was now double-fisting drinks. "Don't be too grateful, Gordon. Wayne's got something up his sleeve-I do think Donna here was just about to enlighten us."

Annabeth had only just met the Mayor, and already she wanted to punch him in the head. Usually it took her a whole ten minutes to develop the urge.

Donna and Bruce glanced at each other, and a message of understanding passed between them. "Well, Mayor..." Bruce paused to take an actual sip of his champagne. "There _is_ something we wanted to propose to you..."

* * *

The night wore on. Annabeth quickly realized that Bruce and Donna had their "proposal" covered; if they could jolly Garcia into a better mood, if they could ply him with enough drinks, if they could get Gordon on their side, they would be able to convince the Mayor to sign off on approving a Take Back the Night rally. In all honesty, Annabeth did not question the outcome; in two months, she had begun to trust in Bruce's ability to charm and cajole and buy his way into the good graces of just about anyone. Her presence only seemed to undermine Bruce's credibility, so after a little bit, she discreetly detached herself from the group and began to wander about.

Several people nodded, recognizing her as Bruce Wayne's latest "girlfriend"; one or two actually smiled and waved. Annabeth did her best to pleasantly acknowledge all of them, but in all honesty, she felt like a fish out of water. Longingly, she thought back to the last fundraising party at Wayne Manor, and began to wish for the unflappable Alfred, but he was busy circulating through the crowd, supervising and keeping a watchful eye over the event.

She was still clutching the flute of champagne Bruce had passed her earlier, and almost absently, she took a sip of the light, bubbly liquid. Perhaps she could just squirrel away a bottle, find a quiet room, and have her own party...

It was not to be. "Annabeth!"

A moment later, Elisa St. Marie emerged from the crowd, waving as she approached. "I knew you'd be here. I've been looking for you for the past half hour!" She eyed Annabeth's sleeveless burgundy satin gown, which swept to the floor and accentuated her curves. "You look great..." Her eyes caught the tattoos. "Well, well...I'll be damned."

"Oh god. What is it with you people and tattoos?" Annabeth fought the urge to cover her arms with her hands. "You and Bruce. Both of you are obsessed!"

"Bruce, too, huh?" Elisa smiled. "That's surprising. I've always thought he'd bring home some good, wholesome, leggy socialite." Her tone indicated this was not a desirable thing.

"Instead he's taken up with a tattooed, trashy social worker." Annabeth sipped more of her champagne, and noted with surprise that she was feeling relaxed.

"I wouldn't say you're trashy, not at all. Just...real. Engagingly real." Elisa scanned the crowds, taking in the designer gowns, the glittering jewels, the well-maintained men and women. "And other than the cops and their partners, you're about the only one at this party worth talking to."

They remained clustered together, making idle chatter and taking sips of champagne. Every now and then, Annabeth would glance over at Bruce and Donna, still talking in earnest to Garcia and Gordon. It was difficult to tell from this distance how the conversation was going...She redirected her attention back to Elisa, who was talking about her upcoming wedding.

"...Bradford's parents want to have it at their place in the Berkshires." Elisa rolled her eyes. "I'd just as soon have it at City Hall, it's not like I can afford anything else, but Bradford's mom about had a heart attack when I suggested it. So we're doing a ceremony at their house up there next month; it's going to be a big weekend thing, a country house party. Bruce is coming..." She hesitated for a moment, then plunged on, "I'd really like it if you could come, too. The whole thing's going to be over the top, but I've got barely any friends coming, and my parents are overseas..."

Annabeth was absurdly flattered, and could understand, all too well, the pain of not having family or friends of one's own at a major life event. "Of course I'll come...just give me the details, and I'll be there. Maybe I can travel up with Bruce."

Elisa gave her an odd, questioning look. "Of course you'll come up with Bruce. You're a couple, why wouldn't you?"

For one moment, Annabeth was greatly tempted to tell Elisa the absurd truth—but if she were to be honest with herself, she barely knew what the truth was, anymore, other than that the more time she spent with Bruce, the less certain she was about anything, least of all herself.

Any further existential speculation was interrupted as the most beautiful woman Annabeth had ever laid eyes upon approached them. Annabeth was almost certain she had seen this woman on various glossy magazine spreads, modeling diamond-encrusted bras. Fortunately, tonight she was dressed in something a little more appropriate—although not by much. Her teal dress covered very little of her seemingly-endless legs, and the color complemented her perfectly-tanned, flawless skin beautifully.

"Are you Annabeth de Burgh?" she asked.

Annabeth glanced at Elisa quickly; Elisa shrugged. "I am," she answered cautiously.

"Lovely." When the woman smiled, she revealed a mouth of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, framed by equally perfect, glossed lips. "I'm Renata Llewelyn."

"Nice to meet you." Annabeth had no idea who this woman was, or why she was speaking to her, but she knew enough to be pleasant. "This is Elisa," she added.

Renata smiled and nodded at Elisa, but her attention was completely directed towards Annabeth. "I've been so curious about you."

"Seems like I've been getting that a lot lately," Annabeth said ruefully.

"I imagine so." Renata smiled again, and there was some warmth in the smile, but an undertone to her voice-curiosity, perhaps? Or something more sinister? "You've been quite the talk in some circles. How'd you manage to catch the attention of Bruce Wayne?"

"With competition like you? I have no clue." Annabeth tried to play this off lightly, but the woman's question was so dangerously close to her own line of thinking, she was certain Renata could sense it. "But you know Bruce...he's so varied in his tastes." She glanced down at the flute she clutched-it was empty. She needed more champagne to fuel this foray into new depths of awkwardness.

Renata laughed. "You've got that right. He certainly does have—what did you say? Variable tastes." She leaned in closer, and Annabeth could see the pity, the well-intentioned kindness in her face. "You're a sweet woman, Annabeth. Everyone can see that. Just be careful; don't let Bruce Wayne get too close. He loves all women, and he'll break your heart."

Elisa bristled defensively. "You speak from personal experience?"

"Hardly." The thought seemed to amuse Renata. "I've got enough sense to stay away from him. He's a charmer, and he's nice, and funny, but he's got no clue about how to handle with care. You know as well as anyone how he bounces from one woman to another." She stared at Annabeth intently. "You're so different than his usual choice, I was worried you might not know the score."

Annabeth shifted her weight. "If we're going to continue this conversation, I'm going to need more champagne."

"No need," Renata waved off the idea. "I just wanted to drop a friendly warning. I'm on my way now, and will leave you two to hate me as you will." And then she wandered off, waving to various people as she left Annabeth and Elisa behind in a strained silence.

After a moment, Elisa spoke, her voice comforting. "Don't listen to her, Annabeth. I think she's just jealous-along with every other socialite and celebrity in Gotham. They're all pissed off that Bruce Wayne chose you over them."

Annabeth shook her head. "Come on, Elisa. You've known him longer than I have, and we both know Bruce Wayne is a womanizer."

"He's been...friendly...with a lot of women," Elisa said reluctantly. "But I don't know how serious it's been in the past…generally, he just flirts a lot. I seriously doubt Bruce would intentionally mislead anyone. And he really seems completely into you. Look at the way he's lobbying for your work."

"That's just it, Elisa!" Annabeth's voice had risen a little, and several people nearby glanced their way. She smiled sheepishly, and said in a lower tone, "No one takes Bruce seriously because they all think that he's just being typically stupid, interested in whatever his_girlfriend-"_ she said this with contempt "-is into. They think I've seduced him into helping out."

"They do not!" Elisa was outraged. "I know Bradford and I don't, and neither do his parents. Neither do _a lot _of people. They think you've been really good for Bruce."

_And it's all a sham, _Annabeth thought bitterly. "Seriously, I want more champagne."

As Wayne-sponsored fundraisers went, this one would go down as one of the most successful in recent memory. The food was excellent, the alcohol plentiful, the guests either important or interesting (rarely were they both); more to the point, Bruce could tell the checks would come in fast and thick for the beleaguered Gotham City PD. And, of course, they had achieved their underlying aim-he and Donna had secured permission for the Take Back the Night rally. Mayor Garcia had given in with much ill grace, and Bruce sensed that the man was waiting for money to cross his palm. The thought made him grind his teeth in anger; had corruption once more permeated to the highest levels of the city's government? But Commissioner Gordon had come down on their side, and between the three of them, they had worn down Garcia. It was a bittersweet triumph, however-they would have to work with the Mayor extensively, through this event, and Bruce could think of nothing he wished to do less. The man was possibly corrupt, more than a little offensive, and hostile towards women. His thinly-disguised contempt for Annabeth was an off-putting thing, to say the least.

_Annabeth. _For once, she had exercised good social sense and absented herself from the "campaign", although where she had gotten to, Bruce had no idea. Donna had caught sight of a couple of Safe Haven sponsors, and after sharing a brief smile of victory with Bruce, she made her way over to them, no doubt to charm and schmooze. The woman was a pro.

Bruce glanced down at his champagne flute; to his surprise, he had drained it. It wasn't often that he drank-especially in the evening, when he had to be prepared to suit up at a moment's notice, and he couldn't possibly be the Batman if he was as drunk as a lord. But in his efforts to win over Garcia, he had apparently suspended the rule. He shrugged half-heartedly as he realized this, and then went off in search of a waiter with a tray of champagne. In for a penny, in for a pound.

From where they stood, halfway across the room, Elisa and Annabeth watched him disappear into the crowd-"No doubt to find his next girlfriend," Annabeth muttered sourly, and realized, with surprise, that it was a tiny seed of jealousy which spawned the remark. Elisa looked at her in surprise, but didn't have a chance to respond, because just then, Commissioner Gordon approached the two women.

"Annabeth," he said warmly.

"Commissioner," she nodded, with much less warmth. The last time they had been together had been when he was questioning her about her suspected involvement in the murders of the Arrows women. "Commissioner Gordon, this is Bradford Winston's fiancée, Elisa St. Marie. She's a local artist here in Gotham."

He nodded and smiled to Elisa, but once more, Annabeth was the person being sought. "May I speak with you in private, Annabeth?"

Elisa had been on the social scene long enough to know when to make a discreet departure. "I'm going to see what Bradford's up to. Nice to meet you, Commissioner..."

Both Annabeth and Gordon watched the young woman meander off. "Nice girl," Gordon remarked. "She'll be a credit to the Winston family."

"Indeed. Hopefully, they'll be a credit to her, too." Annabeth was suddenly happy she had gotten herself more champagne. "What can I help you with, Commissioner?"

She was surprised when he took her by the elbow and guided her gently away from the crowds. "I need your help with something," he told her, and the note of quiet desperation in his voice was enough to make her go completely still.

"What's wrong?" Annabeth studied Gordon's face; she did not know him very well, but it seemed as though he had aged rapidly in the last few months. It was nothing she could put her finger on, nothing acutely visible, just a sense that the many of Gotham's problems had converged onto Gordon's shoulders, and he was finding it a burden not to his liking.

"You work with different...agencies in your work, don't you?"

"Sure." Annabeth didn't know where this conversation was going, but she decided to go along for the ride. Whatever resentment she harbored towards Gordon, she knew, was completely unfair-he had to do his job, same as anyone else in his position. "We liaise with a lot of different agencies and organizations, political, private, public. We help each other out."

"What about...rehabilitation facilities?" Gordon glanced around as he said this, as though he was checking to ensure no one was eavesdropping.

"Of course. A lot of our clients have substance abuse issues, and rehab is the best place for them. We work with quite a few rehab facilities, within the city and beyond, depending on the situation." Annabeth inched closer to them. "Do you need...?" She let the question go unasked.

"I need a recommendation for a rehab facility." Gordon didn't enjoy saying it, but it was the first time he admitted it aloud, and he felt a fractional sense of relief. "Some place discreet, with a high success rate."

"I know of a few places." Annabeth paused as she considered a way in which she could frame her words carefully. In her most professional, neutral, compassionate counselor voice, she asked, "Is this recommendation for you, or for someone else?"

"My wife...she isn't well. It's gotten worse since all that happened with the Joker, but..." Gordon hated to admit it. "I think she's had a drinking problem for a while."

"Has she agreed to go into rehab?" Annabeth felt incredibly sorry for the man in front of her. "If she hasn't, you'll have to get a court order to compel her to go. And that could be awkward, all around."

"I know. But...we have children, and they have enough problems without Barbara adding to them."

Annabeth nodded. "They need their mother sober. I'll contact you first thing Monday with some places you might try; a lot of facilities have advocates and counselors that can explain and help you through the process of having Mrs. Gordon admitted, willingly or not."

Gordon looked down for a moment. "I'd be grateful to you, Annabeth...and...I'm sorry we had to question you...about everything."

She smiled ruefully. "It was your job. I would have been worried if you _didn't _question me, come to think of it. But did you have to sic the Batman on me?"

He looked startled. "Pardon me?"

"The Batman paid me a visit not long after you did. Maybe he thought he could do his own investigating?" It _had _to be the champagne making Annabeth so chatty. "Come on, Gordon, it's no secret you've worked with him in the past. Looks like you still are."

"The investigation against the vigilante..." Gordon paused. "Oh, screw it. The man comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes he comes my way. And apparently sometimes he goes yours."

Annabeth laughed outright. "Don't worry, Gordon, I don't give a damn what you do, or how you do your job, so long as you do it honestly. Just solve those murders, alright?"

"Your reputation for bluntness is well-deserved." Gordon smiled, almost tenderly. "You actually remind me a lot of my daughter."

"Your daughter?" Annabeth was confused. "Isn't she just a kid? Seven or so?"

"I have an older daughter...named Barbara, too. She's maybe a few years younger than you." Gordon thought of her for a moment, his impossible, fierce, flame-haired hooligan girl. "She was my brother Roger's daughter. When he and his wife died, we adopted her."

"Would that we were all as lucky as her," Annabeth remarked. Her respect of Gordon was growing by the minute. "She must be a good woman."

"She is. A hellion-tattooed and pierced and fierce and a bit wild." Gordon didn't bother to disguise his pride. "But one of the smartest women I know. She was a cop for a few years, but now she's getting her PhD. I bet you two would get along. Anyway, she's fascinated with the Batman-I think he appeals to the rogue streak in her."

It was at moments like this, when Annabeth heard a parent talk about their child, when she heard the love, the pride, the exasperation in the parent's voice, when she was truly struck by her own orphaned state. No one on earth believed in you the way your father and mother did, no one advocated for you, supported you, loved you with such wholesome love as a parents should. And when that was lacking, there was simply a hole within you. Suddenly, absurdly, Annabeth hated the young, wild Barbara Gordon and all her cursed luck.

Gamely, she battled the emotion down-it was stupid, it was self-pitying, it lessened her. "I'll be in touch on Monday about rehab facilities," she told Gordon. "And you'll want to think about getting counseling for your children, too. Substance abuse can tear them apart, too."

Gordon smiled sadly. "I'm beginning to see that."

* * *

Toward midnight, the crowds began to thin a little. The older crowds began to wear out and depart, or in the case of those who had traveled from farther afield, they headed up to the bedchambers Alfred had prepared. The younger crowd began to depart, headed for the night scene which was just kicking off in the city. However, a fair amount still remained-the Gotham cops and their partners were reluctant to depart from such free hospitality, and so lingered on, getting increasingly inebriated; many of the middle-aged politicians, businessmen, investors, and socialites stayed on as well, wheeling and dealing and networking and, in some cases, keeping a watchful eye on Bruce Wayne. No doubt more than a few women were circling like jackals, waiting for their opportunity.

Elisa had rejoined Annabeth, and the two of them sat with Bradford, making pleasant conversation. The more time Annabeth spent with the young couple, the more she liked them-Elisa was down-to-earth, and Bradford surprisingly unpretentious and incredibly in love with his bride-to-be. As they sat, sipping on their bottomless flutes of champagne and watching the thinning crowds, a man approached them.

"Seth Percival!" Bradford boomed, getting up and giving the man a hearty backslap. He beckoned the man over to Annabeth and Elisa. "Ladies, this is Seth Percival-he bought out Gotham Mutual about ten years ago...a relative newcomer to the city. Seth, this is my fiancée, Elisa St. Marie, and our friend, Annabeth de Burgh."

Seth smiled thinly. "A pleasure to meet you both. You're an artist, aren't you, Miss St. Marie?" He didn't wait for a response, merely redirected his attention to Annabeth. "And Miss de Burgh...ah, yes, the belle of the ball."

It didn't take a particularly observant person to see that Seth Percival was not desirable company. His demeanor was oily, and his appearance did nothing to reassure-he was tall and thin, with a pinched mouth and small eyes. Head of an investment firm? Annabeth wouldn't trust him with her dry cleaning, let alone her money. Nevertheless... "A pleasure to meet you," she said, hoping insincerity wasn't dripping from her words. "Although I'm hardly the belle of the ball. That would be Bruce." She glanced around. "Wherever he is."

"If you see him, will you let him know I'm looking for him? I'd like to discuss some investment opportunities with him." His smile was patronizing. "Or perhaps I can tell you about them, see if you'd be interested in passing along a good word to him?"

Annabeth laughed-not too rudely, she hoped. "You're better talking to him yourself."

"Indeed?" Seth cocked a suggestive eyebrow. "I thought you might have very powerful methods of persuasion."

And with that, he departed.

Bradford saw Elisa and Annabeth looking at him accusingly. "Seth's a..." he struggled to find the right words.

"Smarmy bastard?" Elisa suggested.

"An oily son of a bitch?" Annabeth's anger was practically palpable. "Why is it that everyone thinks I'm just a piece of ass that manages to talk Bruce into everything when I'm done sucking him off?" She got up. "Excuse me."

Bradford and Elisa watched Annabeth stride off, her head held high, her eyes gleaming dangerously.

"I don't think Bruce is going to be getting any tonight." Bradford glanced at Elisa, saw her withering gaze. "What? What did I say?"

"You just proved her point, you chump." Elisa shook her head sadly. "And you'd better watch it, mister, or you won't be getting any tonight, either."

* * *

Bruce had spent the last fifteen minutes searching for Annabeth, scanning first the partying crowds in the Grand Salon, and then, when that search proved fruitless, heading further afield. After canvassing the foyer, the dining room, even the kitchen, he headed towards the southeast wing.

And that was where he found her, standing in the study which led to the Batcave, gazing up at the enormous portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

"Hey." He knocked on the doorframe to alert her to his presence, but she didn't turn around. "We wondered where you scampered off to. Donna had to leave—she checked on Timmy, and he still wasn't feeling well, so she took him home." He moved closer, an expression of concern crossing his features. "The crowds weren't getting to you, were they?"

Annabeth didn't speak, but she turned and looked at him. Her expression caught him unawares-her face was an inscrutable mask, as it had been in the early days of their acquaintance.

He tried again. "Success. We got the Mayor to agree to the rally. I think we probably raised at least half a million for his city's police force-he wasn't really in a position to deny us. Although he tried. I think I'm going to have to see who his opponent is in the next election."

Annabeth smiled, but it was not the genuine smile that he had come to know. "That's great." She turned away again. "Just chalk it up to the debts we owe you."

Bruce's eyes slid toward the half-empty champagne flute in her hands, and then he thought of the three glasses he had consumed, himself. It wasn't a significant amount, but he didn't drink often, and he could feel the effects, and clearly, she was feeling the effects, too.. "You don't owe me any debts," he told her quietly. "You know that. I'm actually the one who owes you. You've opened my eyes." He meant it, too-as Bruce Wayne, as the Batman, she had gotten to him, brought things home for him on a personal level. "You've made me aware of so much—I knew all of this existed, but I guess it never really mattered to me before."

Annabeth snorted. "I'm not sure that it matters to you now."

It was the hostile tone in her voice that hurt Bruce even more than the words. She had been exasperated with him in the past—annoyed, perplexed, standoffish, reserved, but he had never encountered this. It was as if there were an unspoken accusation lying between them, and although he did not, could not know what it was that she was thinking, he could sense that it was barbed and poisonous.

"Have I done something to offend you?" he asked.

Annabeth began to pace. "Other than being you? Nothing out of the ordinary." It was then that she realized how exhausted she was, and also, she noticed a scratchiness at the back of her throat. _Lovely. _What a wonderful time to come down with a sore throat, which would most likely lead to a headcold. This made her even more pissy. She glanced around, took in the wood paneling, the grand piano, the tapestries, the marble fireplace, the opulence. "Did you have fun tonight, Bruce? Did you feel like the most magnanimous lord of the manor?"

Wisely, Bruce remained silent, although his gaze became wary.

"All of this," Annabeth gestured in the direction of the Grand Salon, "All of your friends, all your generosity, what's it all about, Bruce? Are you just toying with us? Are you just trying to see how 'the other half lives'? Is it just some sort of little diversion until your next project comes along?" Suddenly her voice grew hoarse, choked with some suppressed emotion. "Are you just toying with _me?_"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Bruce's voice was cold, masking his confusion. He knew Annabeth was a bit neurotic, but this was more than a little unexpected, even for her.

"If you don't know what this is about, Bruce, you're about the only one here who doesn't. Everyone else seems to know it, and they all had such a fine time making insinuations." Red splotches were beginning to creep onto Annabeth's cheeks as she grew more angry. "Everyone seems to think I'm your whore or your dupe. Half of the crowd tonight thought I was seducing you _for_ your charity funds, the other half of the crowd thought you've been seducing me _with _your charity funds."

"And what do you think?" Bruce realized, with a detached surprise, that there was anger building within him, now, too.

"I think this is all some game to you." Annabeth looked around once more with scorn. "You're bored with your wealth, your pointless life, so you turn up at Safe Haven, looking for a charity case, a diversion. I was just some sort of bonus prize."

"Yeah?" Bruce drew closer and glared at her. "I don't see it as a bonus at all. There's no prize in a self-obsessed, self-righteous workaholic who doesn't even know how to express gratitude." He spat the words out as though they were venom in his mouth.

"Gratitude? You want _gratitude?" _Annabeth narrowed her eyes. "What does gratitude translate into in your circle of friends, Bruce? How much sex does gratitude entail? Three fucks? Half a dozen?"

Bruce was disgusted, and he let it show. "That's ridiculous, and you know it."

"I don't know anything! But I do know that you've got _no idea _about what's going on outside your own little insular world, and I think that all of what you've been doing is just a little project, a little game."

Over the years, Bruce had learned to master his anger; he had learned to channel it into a smoldering rage that became part of his soul, directed at no one and nothing other than the nebulous concept of crime and criminals. He had learned to ignore, rationalize, overcome irritation, annoyance, pettiness, and smallness; he had learned that those insignificant causes and sources of anger were just that-insignificant, and unworthy of his energy. But as Annabeth stood there and scorned him and his existence, all of those years of training simply melted away in the white-hot rage that boiled up within him.

"You don't think I know what goes on outside my 'own little world'?" His voice was low and gravelly, harsh even, and strangely, sounded familiar to Annabeth, and that was what made her truly pay attention. "Where the hell have you been the entire time we've spent together? _Look." _He gestured to the portrait of his parents gazing down on them. "You don't think I know about pain? You don't think I know about crime and death and the awful things that happen to children? I might not live in the Narrows, I might not be a welfare recipient, I might not know the fear that your clients have, but I _understand _it." He snatched a silver-framed picture off one of the tables. "You see this?" He shoved it into her hands. "Take a look."

Reluctantly, Annabeth glanced down: it was a black-and-white photograph of a young woman. Annabeth recognized her almost immediately-Rachel Dawes, Bruce's childhood friend and the late Assistant D.A.

"The only person I've loved in _years _was killed not long ago." Bruce's anger was still surging. "I loved her. And I miss her every day. And let's not forget, I watched my parents die. So what if I don't know exactly what it's like to be poor and disenfranchised? I know what pain is like, I know what loss is like, and I know what it's like to lose everything that matters, everything you care about." His next words were deliberate and cruel, and fell like the executioner's axe. "You don't know a thing about that, because the only thing you care about is your own damned pain."

In the entire time Annabeth had known Bruce, he had never spoken to her like that; he had never treated her with anything other than respect, or humor, or gentle flirtation, and so the way he spoke now shocked her into a chastened silence. For lack of anything else Annabeth could do, she looked down at the photograph in her hands. Rachel Dawes stared back at her, unsmiling and fierce.

She walked over to the table and carefully replaced the picture, and then she approached Bruce.

"You loved Rachel Dawes?" she asked, her voice soft in the silence.

Bruce looked at her, and there was no more rage in his face, only a bleakness that tore at Annabeth. "I loved her. I would have walked on a bed of nails for her, jumped out of a thirty-story building, even. But it was unrequited. I...I wasn't good enough for her."

"I doubt that." Slowly, Annabeth approached him and took his hand. He glanced down at her, surprised. "Bruce, I'm sorry. You're right, about everything. It's just that...you're a dark horse. I have no idea who you are. But it seems like it's only a matter of time before you waltz off to your next woman, your next charity case."

"Is that what this is about? Your hostility...this fight? You think I'm just going to bail?" Bruce was disbelieving. "I was under the impression that you couldn't wait to see the back of me."

Annabeth spoke so softly, he had to strain to hear her. "It's just that...I should know better than to fall for a man who can have whatever woman he wants."

"Except you, it seems." Bruce spoke quietly, too, but she heard him, nonetheless. He squeezed her hand and drew her closer to him, so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his tense body. He saw an awareness flash into her eyes for a brief moment before he leaned in and kissed her.

Annabeth hadn't been expecting this, but she didn't pull away. After a tiny second, she responded, kissing him back, parting her lips just a little, encouraging him. If this surprised Bruce, he didn't let that alter his gentle attack upon her mouth. It was a blissful sensation, feeling his lips and tongue gently press into her, exploring, encouraging, teasing. The kiss became more urgent after a moment; he brought his hands up and ran them through her fragrant hair, then cradled her head as he continued the kiss. Annabeth was dimly aware that she was plummeting into him, into a part of him she had never before knew existed... He could hear her breath quickening, he felt his own doing the same-

And then Annabeth wrenched herself away from him. "No-I'm sorry-" she looked at him, stricken. "That was really stupid of me. I'm so sorry-it's the champagne-" With no further explanation, she turned and fled, leaving Bruce equally aroused and disturbed. After a moment, his shock wore off and he took off after her. "Annabeth!"

The crazy woman must have positively _run _out of there; by the time he caught up to her, she had emerged into the Grand Salon and made straight for Elisa. The younger girl stared in surprise at Annabeth, standing before her, looking pale and disheveled. "Annabeth, what's wrong?" Elisa glanced around, saw Bruce standing at one of the entrances to the Salon, looking slightly out of breath and incredibly perturbed.

"Can you give me a ride back to the city?" Annabeth asked desperately. "_Please?"_

Quite sensibly, Elisa had stopped drinking champagne some time ago. "Sure." She put a protective arm around Annabeth. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just...I'm not feeling well." That much was the truth. But after a moment, a choked sob rose up within Annabeth as she considered what had just unfolded, the fight and the kiss and her own stupid neuroses. Elisa looked alarmed and hurried her off, but not before Annabeth threw one tearful, agonized look back over her shoulder and saw Bruce staring at her, confused and hurt.

"I've really screwed things up, Elisa," Annabeth blurted as they exited the Manor. "I think I've really upset Bruce."

"Looks like he's really upset you, too." Elisa didn't look happy. "Look, let's get you home and get you sober. Things will get better, I promise."

But Annabeth couldn't see how they'd ever get better again, because despite what she'd told Bruce not ten minutes before, she had done exactly what she said she couldn't do-she had fallen for him, the enigmatic, unpredictable Bruce Wayne. And she was terrified.


	19. Chapter 19

In its predictably unpredictable way, the weather of Gotham City changed, literally, overnight. By midday Sunday, a harsh cold front had swept through the region, and the temperature plummeted. Both in the city and the suburbs, people reluctantly gave in to the inevitability of winter and began digging out their cold-weather clothing and their electric blankets. They turned on their heaters, began calculating the damage of their winter gas bills, and bundled up.

Annabeth didn't notice. She spent the entire day indoors, on her couch, wrapped in a quilt, nursing a wicked hangover and the beginnings of a headcold. She couldn't remember the last time she had been so miserable, and as much as she wanted to curse Bruce Wayne, she knew she should curse herself more.

All day long, both her cell phone and her home phone rang. Donna, Janey, Bruce: all of them persisted, but especially Bruce. From where she was perched on the couch, Annabeth could hear his voice on her answering machine.

_"Annabeth? It's Bruce. I got your home number from Donna...are you okay?" _A drawn-out pause. _"I don't know what happened last night, but I'm sorry."_

Annabeth couldn't believe her ears. She pissed him off, kissed him, ran out on him, and he was the one apologizing? She closed her eyes as she listened to his voice, trying to drive from her head the memories it evoked; trying to forget the image of him leaning in to her, his eyes burning with intensity and anticipation.

_"I don't want things to be weird between us. I said some really nasty things, and I'm really sorry. And as for kissing you...I'm not sorry. But you looked scared, and I _am _sorry if I scared you. I didn't think I was that scary." _Another pause. _"Anyway. I'm sorry."_

She made no move to answer the phone, not then, nor when Donna called.

_"Annabeth, it's Donna. Jesus, what the hell did you do last night? Bruce Wayne keeps calling me, asking me where you are. As if I know! He seems pretty upset. I told you to watch out for him, not stomp all over his fragile little billionaire heart! Whatever the hell you did, make it right."_

As the day carried on, Annabeth only stirred from the couch to use the bathroom or to fetch fluids from the fridge. She was feeling worse by the second, and not just because of her cold. She had made an ass of herself, and she had no idea how to begin to make it right. She wasn't even sure it was possible.

Towards the evening, the phone rang again. She made no move to answer it, but cocked her head to listen.

_"Annabeth? It's Bruce. Again. Well...call me if you want. I need to talk to you."_

She made a face at her pets, who were crowded on the couch with her. "Not like that's going to happen. 'Hi Bruce, how are you? Sorry for being a jackass, let's kiss and make up, and oh, this time, I promise not to run away like a scared little bunny rabbit.'"

Wurzel yawned.

The phone rang again. This time, Janey's voice filled the room.

_"Annabeth, you asshole, pick up the phone. You were supposed to call me and tell me how the fund-raiser went. Where the hell are you? Did you raise something other than funds, haha?"_

Annabeth picked up the phone, if for no other reason than to prevent any further corny jokes on Janey's part. "Hey."

"Where the hell have you been?" Janey demanded. "I tried calling your cell phone, like, five times."

"Sorry." Annabeth blew her nose. "I wasn't answering."

"Yeah, I got that. You sound like shit, by the way."

"I feel like it, too." And just like that, as though this admission had broken through her last defense, Annabeth started crying. "I'm sorry, Janey...I'm a mess."

"Jesus. I'll be right over."

"No, Janey-" But her best friend had already hung up, and from long years of experience, Annabeth knew that she wouldn't take no for an answer, anyway. She settled deeper into the sofa and her own debilitating self-pity.

Close to an hour later, Janey arrived, letting herself in with the set of keys Annabeth had given her ages ago. As she bustled in, she brought with her not only an enormous bag of Chinese take-out, but also an air of fresh energy which had been lacking in Annabeth's home all day. As Janey leaned down to give her an enormous hug, Annabeth closed her eyes and inhaled Janey's scent-a combination of her perfume and the spicy smells of autumn. The cold air clung to Janey even as she shed her jacket, and Annabeth shivered.

"What's wrong?" Janey demanded immediately. "You sounded awful on the phone, and you look awful, too."

Annabeth didn't bother to conceal the truth from Janey. She sat up and, as Janey began to unpack copious amounts of Chinese food, she told her friend the whole, sorry tale-starting with the hair-raising drive to the Manor and Donna's well-intentioned warnings, through the fundraiser and the tiny humiliations that she endured, through the horrible fight that ensued between her and Bruce, right up to the deliciously sensual, yet stupidly aborted kiss.

When Annabeth told of how she ran off, Janey paused, the eggroll she had been eating suspended halfway to her mouth. "He kissed you? And you _ran away?"_

"Essentially."

Very carefully, Janey set the eggroll down on her plate, got up, and walked over to Annabeth, still huddled on the couch. Quickly, decisively, and none-too-gently, she smacked Annabeth upside the head.

"Ow!" Annabeth exclaimed hoarsely. "What the hell?"

Quite calmly, Janey settled back into her armchair and resumed her meal. "Annabeth," she declared through a mouthful of lo mein, "You are, without a doubt, the stupidest woman in Gotham."

"What'd you smack me for?" Annabeth demanded as she rubbed the spot on her head. "I was looking for _sympathy."_

"Hmph. Looks like you're all stocked up. You're not getting any from me." Janey glared at her. "Seriously, are you _broken_? Why on earth did you run away?"

"I don't know." It was a feeble response, and they both knew it. Annabeth tried again. "We'd both been drinking, and I thought it would be stupid to do something we'd both regret when we were sober. And…I freaked."

"Annabeth. Why would you regret kissing Bruce Wayne? I mean, I can see why _he'd_ regret kissing a madwoman, but you? No. That's a stupid reason."

"I just...freaked, okay? It's been a long time since I've been a situation like that." Annabeth closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the intense look on Bruce's face just as he kissed her.

Janey rolled her eyes and nobly restrained the urge to smack Annabeth again. "It's kissing, Annabeth. It doesn't change much from year to year."

"I know…and I remember now what I'm missing out on. And jesus, for the first time, I really understood Bruce. It was like all this time, I only knew the public side of him. But when we fought, I saw the real him…and I liked him, as screwed up as that sounds. I understood him."

"Maybe because you stopped wallowing in self-pity long enough to realize that you two might have something in common?" Janey began to nibble on a wonton. "Get over yourself, Annabeth, and you might see that there's some decent men out there. Sounds like Bruce Wayne is one of them."

A chill coursed through Annabeth, and she shivered and snuggled deeper within the blankets. "What if I screwed it all up?" she asked from the depths of her cocoon. "How fitting—just as I see how nice Bruce Wayne is, he sees just how crazy I am and takes off."

"You know what? You've been listening to what everyone else is _saying_, and not paying attention to how Bruce is _acting_. And you're using it as an excuse to hide, because you're too scared to get involved." Janey leaned forward and fixed Annabeth with an intense gaze. "If you want to be afraid, fine. Be afraid. But don't let Bruce Wayne be a casualty of your raving emotional incompetence." She snatched the cordless phone off the coffee table and thrust it at Annabeth. "Sweetie, _put the crazy down. _Step away from the crazy, and how about you act your age and call the poor man back?"

* * *

Bereft of the sparkling, cheerful crowds who had gathered there the night before, the rooms and corridors of Wayne Manor had returned to their usual state of abandoned gloom. All throughout Sunday, a cleanup crew worked diligently, thoroughly whisking away any and all traces of the previous night's revelries. Alfred kept a watchful eye upon them, as he always did, but even more, he kept a watchful eye on Bruce as he stalked the property, looking stormy, morose, or contemplative, depending on his mood, which seemed to change by the hour.

By three o'clock, the crew had departed, well-paid and even better-tipped, and it was then that Alfred began moving throughout the first floor, laying and lighting the fires in the massive fireplaces—not for any warmth, but simply to bring some life and cheer into the lonely, echoing house. Each time he lit a fire, he watched with satisfaction as the golden light flickered upward and infused the room with a gentle glow. This was what the Manor had been intended for, Alfred knew—gracious living, generous entertaining, sheltering a thriving dynasty. Instead, it hadbecome a mausoleum, denied the sprawling family, denied most entertainment, denied everything but one vigilant butler and the unhappy man he served.

The unhappy man in question had sequestered himself in his study, and had been there for the better part of two hours. Alfred experienced a slight frission of worry; he had seen Elisa and Annabeth depart the night before, and upon her return, Elisa could tell him nothing except that Annabeth had been upset. Whatever had transpired the night before had served to send Bruce spiraling into a black mood the likes of which he hadn't wallowed in for months.

Alfred squared his shoulders and entered the study. As he entered the room, he saw Bruce sitting at his desk, papers spread out before him, but as far as Alfred could see, the young man was not paying them any attention. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon the portrait of his parents; his mind in a far-off place that Alfred had never been able to reach. Idly, Alfred wondered—if he had been able to reach Bruce when he went to that place of misery and grief, if he had managed to coax Bruce Wayne away from there years ago, would they have come to this point?

"It's coming close to the time for supper, Master Wayne," Alfred said as he knelt down to light the fire in the massive marble fireplace. "Do you have any preferences?"

Without turning his gaze away from the portrait, Bruce responded in a monotone. "I'm not hungry, Alfred."

"Besides the point, Master Wayne." Alfred watched as the flames sprung up in the kindling and began to dance merrily. Creakily, he rose again. "Are you going out patrolling later?"

"Yes."

"Then you're eating dinner. I'll have it ready by seven."

Finally Bruce turned to Alfred. "I said I'm not hungry."

"And _I _said it doesn't matter." Alfred didn't mind this argument, not one bit. He never minded an argument where he was right, and where he would win. He looked down at Bruce, a small smile lurking on his features. "Master Wayne, if you are going out tonight, you need to have energy. You might be chewing on the fat of your own brain, but that just isn't enough nutrition. So be in the dining room at seven, and I will have a meal prepared for you that you _will e_at."

"I'm not twelve any more," Bruce muttered.

"Of course not, sir. You were far more agreeable when you were twelve."

Something about Alfred's banter finally broke through Bruce's reserve. "I've been trying to call Annabeth all day. She's not answering her phone." At that moment, Bruce _did l_ook about twelve years old, replete with all of the adolescent angst one could imagine.

"Is there...any reason for her silence?" Alfred was treading through uncharted territory here; even before Rachel's death, but especially after, Bruce rejected the possibility of any genuine emotional entanglements and romantic relationships. "She appeared quite upset last evening."

"Damned if I know." He _didn't _know, at all. All he did know was that there was something in Annabeth that drew him back to her, time and time again, despite her snubs and scorn and apparent aversion to him. She liked him, that much was obvious, but what was equally obvious was that she found this an unacceptable state of affairs. Bruce had stopped trying to figure out why this was, and had started trying to figure out why this did not deter him. "What the hell is wrong with women, Alfred?"

In moments like this, Alfred was struck by how much knowledge Bruce Wayne had _not _acquired. Despite his training, despite the years of lessons he learned from various masters, despite all of the knowledge he had obtained through his schooling and self-education, Bruce remained hopelessly unenlightened in the simplest, yet most important, knowledge of all-the emotions of humanity.

"Women…" Alfred began, and promptly foundered. "I really do not know, Master Wayne. I have never truly understood them, myself, but they are bewitching all the same. I do not think there's nothing _wrong _with women. They simply learn to cope the best way they can with the hand they are dealt. If you are having problems with Annabeth, I suggest that when you talk to her, you bear that in mind. "

Bruce looked at him suspiciously. "Why are you always so sympathetic towards her?"

Alfred ignored his question. He was still considering the woman who currently plagued Bruce's peace of mind. "I think you find Annabeth compelling, in part because you and she are ultimately striving for the same end. It is always difficult to find someone who shares the same kind of intensity for the same kind of goal. And I think that intensity has warped her in the same way that it is warping you. Of course…" he smiled gently. "That only explains what is wrong with Annabeth, and not women. And it certainly doesn't explain what is wrong with _you._"

Bruce was considering how to respond when his cell phone began to ring. Almost idly, he picked it up and gazed at the caller ID, and Alfred watched in amusement as he visibly brightened. Without waiting for it to ring again, he picked answered. "Annabeth?"

"Bruce." She said this in a croaking voice, and he winced. After an awkward pause on her end, she continued. "I got your messages."

"I was worried." Bruce was aware of Alfred hovering in the background, nosy old man that he was, but Bruce didn't give a damn. "Are you sick?"

Annabeth ignored his question, and blurted her next words out in a rush. "I'm so sorry, Bruce, for so much. I don't know what my problem is…well, actually, I do, but I'm sorry I'm making it _your_ problem. I was really a jerk to you last night-" she stopped talking for a moment. "Are you still there?"

"I'm still here," he reassured her, quietly amused. "Why don't we get together tomorrow and talk about it? Sounds like you have some things you want to get off your chest."

"Yes." Annabeth sounded slightly relieved. "You're not mad at me?"

"Mad? No. Perplexed and worried, yes. But…" Bruce considered his next words and their import, whether or not Annabeth was aware of it. "We can make it right."

"I want to," Annabeth said softly, surprising them both.

"I'll be at Safe Haven sometime tomorrow. How about we talk then?"

"Okay."

When Bruce disconnected, he saw Alfred still standing and listening in. "You're shameless."

Again, a phone rang. Not the house phone, nor Bruce's normal cell phone, but the usually silent encrypted phone linked to the phone the Batman had given Gordon months back. Bruce kept this phone in his presence at all times, and now it sat by his elbow, ringing with all the urgency that both men knew hovered at the other end of the line. Bruce promptly evicted Annabeth from his mind and began to make the mental shift into the Batman, and Alfred discreetly began to withdraw from the room.

Just before Bruce answered the phone, he called after the butler, "Can you make that dinner to go, Alfred?"

* * *

There were several parks within Gotham City, but Robinson Park was by far the largest and the most popular. It was one of the public areas that Solomon Wayne had established and cultivated back in his day, but by the 1980s, it had degenerated into a very far cry from the glorious, well-maintained social space that it once was. Where buggies had once rolled past, skateboarders had taken over; where elegant and fashionable socialites had once ambled, homeless runaways now hid. Where lovers once gathered on the benches under the full moon, drug addicts had taken their place, shooting up as best they could in the lunar wash.

In the more prosperous 1990s, the City began to revitalize the park, driving out the homeless and the drug addicts and the runaways and replacing them with more police, better-trimmed shrubs, and various family-friendly events. Robinson Park became, once more, if not a memorial to the halcyon days of Gotham's Gilded Age, then at least a reasonably safe place to jog, make out, or picnic. Given its relative comeback, therefore, it was more than a little alarming when a body was found there, already stiffening in the bitter cold of that Sunday night.

Jim Gordon knelt down beside the body and gave it a careful look, making sure not to touch it. Detective Montoya hovered behind him, filling him in on the details.

"...some joggers reported it about an hour ago. They swore they didn't touch the body."

The body was that of a man, probably in his early 40s. He was sleekly handsome, and dressed in elegant business attire. There was a small bullet wound in his forehead.

"That's why they called you, sir," Montoya said helpfully. "Bullock figured this is someone important, figured you'd want to be involved."

The coroner and the forensic scientists were approaching. They were the ones authorized to handle the body, and Gordon stepped back to let them do their work. He and Montoya watched as they rolled the body over, and he heard Montoya's professional, detached voice: "...appears to be one gunshot wound administered to the forehead, delivered execution-style..."

Until Montoya and the scientists and the coroner uncovered and cataloged whatever evidence they could discover, Gordon would be of little use. He stepped back, letting them go about their business, and as they did, Gordon went about some business of his own. He stepped off the jogging path and into the shadows of a nearby cluster of trees, knowing with absolute certainty that someone would be there, lurking in the darkness.

The Batman was waiting for him.

"Do you have a life?" Gordon asked him. "Seems like whenever I call, you can just drop everything and come right away." He shivered within his lined jacket, and wondered, absently, how the Batman stayed warm. Was his suit especially designed to withstand the elements? Considering the other gadgets and equipment the man had, Gordon wouldn't be surprised if the damned costume were lined with magical pixie-dust.

The Batman's response was predictably terse. "I live for these stolen hours together." He jerked his chin over to the hive of activity. "Who's dead?"

"We're not sure yet. There doesn't seem to be any ID on him." Gordon glanced back over to the group; Montoya was beginning to string out the police tape. "I have a suspicion, however."

"Is he tied in with the others?" As the Batman spoke, his breath came out in a steamy puff which hung on the icy air. Somehow, this surprised Gordon; perhaps, on some level, he had forgotten that the Batman was as human and flesh and blood as the rest of them, and had a breath just the same, too. Realizing he was being distracted by his own awe, he hurried to answer the Batman's question.

"Oh yeah." As soon as Gordon saw the body, suspected who it was, he knew. "This could get ugly. I think the FBI's going to have to get involved at this point."

The Batman cursed, a new development for him. "Dammit." His voice deepened to a positively furious growl. "Who the hell is it?"

Gordon told him, and the two men gazed at each other, the potential awfulness lying before them. Each of them had realized, independently, what this death could mean, and what could happen if it was in fact part of the nightmare that was unfolding for the prostitutes of Gotham City.

* * *

One of the many ways Trinity's life had been altered—and not for the better—since she had gotten involved with the Arrows was that her home, her beautiful condo, her sacred space, her retreat had been violated. Donzetti had insisted on being able to visit her any time of day or night, and she had had no choice but to acquiesce and give him a key to her place. This was something she had never done before. She had never conducted business within her own home.

_But then, _she mused on that icy-cold Sunday night, _this is hardly business. It's not pleasure, either. This is an aberration. A blasphemy._Outwardly, her face maintained its typical serene, untroubled beauty as she methodically went through the tasks of the night ahead. In an elegant crystal vase, she arranged the crocuses she had purchased earlier in the day; checked on the champagne which was chilling; idly straightened a few cushions; deliberately added a puff of perfume and another layer of powder. Donzetti liked for her home and her person to be in order when he came to her-which should be any minute.

On cue, she heard the keys rattle and her front door open; slowly, she ambled into the hallway to greet him.

Donzetti grinned wolfishly. "Hey, babe. Sorry I'm late." He held his face out to her for the messy, mouthy kisses that he enjoyed, and then bustled into the condo. "I had important business to take care of."

It had taken Trinity very little time to discover how this man ticked—when he made references to his "important business," when he casually mentioned Jones and the Arrows, it meant he wanted her to ask about it. He liked to talk, he wanted to brag, he craved the attention, he loved being made much of. Really, he was coming to be putty in her hands-the more he trusted Trinity, the more he talked.

Trinity took his hand and led him into the living room. "Sit down," she told him in her most sultry voice, and indicated the squashy leather armchair she knew he favored. "I'm going to give you a backrub, and you can tell me all about it."

"Get me a drink, too, would ya?"

Gritting her teeth, Trinity obliged, pulling the champagne from its ice and popping open the bottle. Just as well that she had thrown out the last of the rat poison.

She brought him a glass filled to the brim with the crisp, golden drink, and immediately began rubbing his meaty shoulders, trying not to focus on the dark hairs sprouting on his neck. "Now," she whispered in his ear, "Why don't you tell me about this important business that kept you from my bed?"

Yes, Donzetti had become pliable putty in her very experienced hands. "Had a big job to take care of. It was important, so Jones had me make sure it happened."

"Yeah?" She ran a finger up his neck and around his ear. "What happened?"

"Just had to take out a competitor. Some sleaze bag. Nathan, his name was. Nathan Parris." Donzetti sighed in satisfaction as he drained his glass. "He didn't want to work with us, and if you're not playing on our team, you're not allowed on the field."

In her shock, Trinity almost ceased her attentions, but at the last second, she caught herself and continued on. Her suspicions began to crystallize. She knew _exactly _who Nathan Parris was, and this did not bode well for the women of Gotham. He was a small-time dealer in flesh, and ran a brothel notorious for being filled with women who were treated better than sex-slaves. And if the Arrows had taken him out, it could only mean that they were planning to corner the market. Given their recent consolidation of power, Trinity could only assume that they intended to go after this market on a large scale. The mere possibility of it made her blood run cold.

One of the many skills required in Trinity's line of work was acting—a talented lady _always _put on a good act. And that night, as she fussed and fawned over Donzetti, Trinity gave the prize performance of her life. That entire night, she fought off panic and disgust as she contemplated the coming curse that, if unchecked, would taint the city beyond all redemption.

* * *

By the end of the night, the temperature had plummeted to a freakishly unseasonable twenty-two degrees, and all over Gotham, people were chilled to their core. But none were as chilled as Bruce, and Annabeth, and Gordon, and Trinity—in professional and personal ways, fear and uncertainty were beginning to freeze them, threatening to paralyze them as sordid ghosts forces of the past, present, and future haunted them all and brought the promise of worse yet to come.


	20. Chapter 20

It had been a long time since Bruce had seen his parents in his dreams. The last time had been right after Rachel died. It had been a horrible time for him-both he and Alfred had wandered about the penthouse, lost, grieving. Nights were exceptionally hard, then, for he was having a hard time falling asleep and an even harder time staying asleep. When he awoke in the night, he would be gasping, sweating, paralyzed with a fear he never allowed to reign when he was awake. He knew his subconscious conjured horrible nightmares during that time, but thankfully, he never remembered when he awoke. The only dream he did recall was the one with his parents, the one in which he was reunited with Thomas and Martha Wayne once more. It had been that dream which had finally coaxed him out of his grief-stricken depression and back into the land of the living.

And now he was in their presence once more.

Strangely, he was a child again, eight years old and yet painfully aware of all that would unfold in the years ahead. He stood at the crest of the hill, just outside the house, gazing down the green slopes of the estate, watching the children of the Gotham City PD playing in the background. But it was his parents that he saw. They were walking up the hill, heading toward him, laughing and holding hands. In that moment, he was struck by how happy they seemed, how in love. He watched them hungrily, feasting his eyes upon them, starving for any vision of him he could get. Martha saw him and waved, and Thomas knelt down and opened his arms to Bruce. But something held Bruce back—some force held him in place.

That's when Bruce saw him: Joe Chill, looking the same as he had on that god-awful night: disheveled, dirty, up to no good. He was stalking up the hill, coming behind Thomas and Martha, looking ludicrously out of place in the well-manicured beauty of the Palisades, and Bruce's eyes were glued to the gun, but he couldn't move-and then Joe Chill turned into a leering, laughing Joker-

The shots blasted out, louder than they had sounded in actuality, and Bruce watched as his parents crumpled to the ground, their lives—and his—shattered like porcelain dolls. His role in Bruce's dream completed, the Joker disappeared, and it was only then that Bruce was able to move again, and he rushed to his parents, watching in fascinated horror as their blood spilled onto the lush grass.

"Bruce."

It was his mother speaking; miraculously, she was still alive, but only barely. Bruce knelt before her and saw that his parents were still holding hands.

"Bruce." Martha spoke again, her voice barely more than a dying gasp. "It's not too late."

He shook his head, wild with grief and anger at the deaths that, once more, he had been unable to prevent. "It is."

"No." She coughed, and a trickle of blood passed her lips and stained her peaches-and-cream skin. "It's not too late for you. You don't have to die with us."

* * *

_"You don't have to die with us."_

The gentle voice of Martha Wayne was still echoing in Bruce's head as he erupted out of the dream, disoriented and shaking and tangled up in the goosedown comforter that Alfred had wisely spread out the night before, in anticipation of the bitter cold.

"Master Wayne?"

Alfred was standing in the doorway, peering into the bedchamber. "Are you awake, sir? It's only eight-thirty."

Bruce shook his head, trying to hang on to the vision of his parents, the sound of his mother's voice. "I...I'm awake." Almost to himself, he muttered, "You don't have to die with us."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Bruce shivered. Why the hell was he so cold? Belatedly, he remembered taking off his t-shirt before crawling under the covers; in the biting cold air of the morning, he was paying for it. "How cold is it outside, Alfred?"

"It has warmed up to almost thirty degrees." Alfred came into the room and headed to the fireplace, where he began poking at the dying embers. "I heard on the news three homeless citizens died from exposure last night. Nothing criminal in that...but somehow, it _feels _like there is." He glanced back at Bruce. "Did you sleep well, sir?"

"Not really."

"Splendid." Alfred wasn't paying much attention to his employer. "I will return with your breakfast. I have decided you drink far too much coffee, sir. All of that caffeine simply isn't good for your system. You should drink more tea."

"You're just trying to assert imperial dominance." Bruce was rapidly awakening now. "I want my coffee. Black."

"Darjeeling or Earl Grey?" Alfred asked brightly.

"You're a nag," Bruce grumbled as he slowly emerged from his bed. He ambled over to the bay window which looked out onto the sweeping grounds. From where he stood, he could see the rolling, green slope of the hill, the same one from the dream which lurked so fresh in his mind. "Were my parents happy, Alfred?"

Turning back to face the older man, Bruce could tell that the question had rattled him. "Where on the good green earth did this codswallop come from?" His carefully-modulated voice threatened to lapse into the Cockney accent he had tried for years to suppress. "What an extraordinary question." When he saw that Bruce was still expecting an answer, he sighed. "As far as I know, Master Bruce, your parents were happy. With themselves, with their lives, with you, with each other. It was one of the most refreshing things about them—they were wealthy, and yet they were happy. So few wealthy are, really."

"What was their marriage like?" Bruce demanded. "I only saw them as a child sees his parents, not as a husband and wife."

Alfred began to meander aimlessly about the room, fiddling with various objects as he went-running his hand along the dresser to check for dust, straightening a pillow, picking up some withered petals that had fallen from the bouquet of freshly-cut flowers that he brought in daily. Only when he found nothing else with which to fidget did he answer the question. "Your parents married each other because they wanted to, because they wanted to share their life together...not because they had to, not because it was expected of them, not because they had their families pressuring them to find someone 'suitable'. In my opinion, sir, those make the best marriages—the kind of marriage that becomes a partnership. Not everyone can forge that kind of marriage." He trailed off for a moment, remembering his brilliant, glittering friends Thomas and Martha, their work, their generosity, their love. "It was a privilege to see their partnership and how it worked, and it was a joy to see how they loved their life."

_"It's not too late."_

It _was_ too late, had been too late, too many years ago, for Bruce's parents.

_"You don't have to die, too."_

But he had died, hadn't he? At least metaphorically, on that night that he watched Chill murder his parents. Either that, or he had been dying a little every day since then. But is that what Thomas and Martha would have wanted for him? Apparently not, if he were to believe what his mother had told him in his dream.

Alfred was still talking. "They were each their own person, certainly, but they worked in unison. They had the same goals, and they worked for them together." He fixed Bruce with an intense gaze. "They loved you, Master Wayne, but sometimes I think they were happy to die together as they lived together. And I think if they could see you now, they would only be grieved to see how unhappy and alone you are."

_"It's not too late."_

Not surprisingly, Bruce did not directly respond to this gentle rebuke. But with an air of energetic decisiveness, he crossed the room and disappeared into his closet. From the bedchamber, he heard Alfred's patiently amused voice. "What are you doing now, sir?"

"Getting dressed." He grabbed the first pair of pants and shirt that came into his hands, and only prayed it wasn't the flashy designer labels Annabeth loved to mock. "I'm heading into the city. It's not too late."

"Of course not, sir. It should only be ten in the morning by the time you make it to downtown."

"Yeah, that too."

* * *

Bruce had spent enough time at Safe Haven to understand the insanity that seemed to descend upon the place on Monday mornings. Annabeth had explained it to him, a long time ago: mothers and children tended to show up on that day, slipping away as husbands and boyfriends and fathers returned to work after inflicting upon their families another weekend of cruelty and fear. Add to that all the little business that accumulates over the course of two days off, and it was usually a scene of controlled chaos.

This Monday was no different. As soon as he stepped into the second floor, intent on seeking out Annabeth, he was greeted by noise and people. One of the mothers was chasing after her toddler, who had inexplicably made its way down from the third floor, and he passed two rather worn-out looking women, likely new clients driven in from the streets by the cold. Maya was at her desk outside Donna's office, but she didn't greet him right away; she was talking on the phone as she simultaneously typed out an email. Even as she multi-tasked in this fashion, a second line rang. She threw Bruce one look of harassed desperation before answering. "Safe Haven Consulting, please hold—" she was cut off, and frowned. After a moment, she said crisply, "Just a moment, I'll transfer you through."

Finally, she was off the phone. "I think Mondays should be mandatory days off."

"Busy morning?" Bruce smiled sympathetically.

"You have _no idea." _Maya didn't mind, not really. She enjoyed the frenetic pace. "If you're looking for Annabeth, you'll have to wait. She's on a conference call. Watch out—she's sick as a dog, and twice as snappy. Damned fool must have caught a cold, traipsing around your manor on Saturday."

Just then, Donna burst out of her office. Without even seeming to see Bruce, she hurried down the hall to Annabeth's office and closed the door behind her.

"What was that all about?" Bruce was alert to trouble.

Maya shrugged. "No idea. It was Marjane's foster mother on the phone. I know that Donna and Annabeth haven't been able to reach her lately..." Any further speculation was cut off by a strangled exclamation, almost a cry in protest, emanating from Annabeth's office. "Excuse me," Maya said, and hurried after Donna. He was tempted to follow after, but something held him back. He watched as Maya disappeared into Annabeth's office, and as the door opened and closed, he heard the sound of crying, and then, the softer sound of Donna's dispassionate, reasoning voice.

Five minutes later, he was still hovering by Maya's desk when the door opened once more, and Annabeth, Maya, and Donna all emerged. Annabeth was still crying, silently; he caught a glimpse of her pale, tear-stained face before Maya led her past him and to the elevator. Donna remained behind, standing next to Bruce.

He turned to her. "What's going on? What happened?"

Donna had never appeared so grim, so fierce. "It's Marjane. She's disappeared." She glanced over at Bruce, and he saw that even she was deeply agitated. "We think _that man, _her husband, went to Metropolis and brought her back here."

"How? _Why?"_

"I talked with her foster mother-Marjane's been homesick, and she placed a call to her parents in Iran last week. She must have told them where she was, and they probably told her husband." Donna's cool exterior began to crack. "Dammit! We lost her. She's been missing since Friday; she never came home from school. Dammit, dammit, _dammit!_"

Bruce's mind was already dancing about between different plans of action, but he needed more information. "Can't we get her back?"

"How?" Donna demanded. "We can't just show up at his apartment and demand her back. We simply cannot, will not put ourselves into that sort of physical danger. We can't go to the police, because then they'll just end up deporting Marjane. Unless Marjane can come back here, or make it back to her foster family in Metropolis, our hands are tied."

"Annabeth seemed upset." That, Bruce thought wryly, was like saying the_Titanic _had a minor leak.

"She _is _upset. And she's sick, too, so this was just one blow too many. She's no damned good when she gets like this."

"What do you mean? When she gets like _what, _exactly?"

Donna shrugged, exasperated. "Come on Bruce, you've been around Annabeth long enough. You're not stupid. The woman's obsessed, and not in a way that's at all cute to watch. She goes through these phases when she works longer hours, drains herself of all energy, completely exhausts herself, and then she practically collapses. She's sick, she's exhausted, and it's just a matter of time. _She doesn't know when to stop._" Worry was clouding her eyes. "It sucks for us to watch, because she doesn't listen to any of us."

"Is she manic?"

"No." Donna rejected that right away. "Just haunted. I think work's her way of coping. And I would say she'd have to plead temporary stupidity."

As he listened to Donna detail Annabeth's obsessive, self-destructive streak, Bruce suddenly began to appreciate exactly how Alfred felt. "So, what? She just does a crash-and-burn every now and then?"

"Essentially. I sent her home until she recuperates." Donna shook her head. "She always takes it so hard when we lose one of our clients...these people are the only family she has. And that's why I treat this like a business. I don't know if she'll ever learn to do the same...but if she doesn't, it's going to tear her apart."

* * *

The Batman came to her that night.

After Donna sent her home earlier that day, Annabeth had collapsed on the sofa, too sick, too exhausted, too depressed to do anything else. Her last coherent thought was that she should call Bruce, cancel, explain, _anything, _but as a cough racked her body, she realized that she simply did not have the energy. With a tiny mental shrug, she pulled her throw over her and curled up on the sturdy end of the couch and fell asleep.

When at last she awoke, it was dusk. The golden glow of a setting autumn sun had illuminated the living room, but nothing could keep out the chill—she had forgotten to turn on the heat when she returned earlier, and the unseasonable cold snap was nowhere near over with.

Even after the hours-long nap, she still felt awful. Her head was completely congested, her body ached, and it wouldn't have surprised her at all if she had a fever. As much as it pained Annabeth to admit it, she needed to stay right here, recuperating; she was a mess in every possible way, and she wasn't of much use to anyone in this condition. So there she sat, wrapped in a blanket, just as Janey had found her the night before. But even then, she wasn't completely idle; she was thinking, thinking, thinking of some way she could help Marjane.

This wasn't the first time she had lost a client; she had seen it happen so many times before when they went into hiding and couldn't stick it out-their old lives, their old friends, and their old jobs were too difficult to abandon. Or else they simply went back to the men—and, on occasion, the women—who mistreated them. _Poor Marjane. _She had simply been homesick. Annabeth didn't blame her in the slightest. But where ever the girl was now, she was probably terrified, possibly hurt. How could Annabeth help? The cops were out of the question. She thought briefly of Gordon, but rejected that idea almost immediately. As good and as honest as Gordon was, he was limited to and by the system, and she didn't want to get him involved. Marjane was, after all, an illegal immigrant. And Annabeth couldn't just go in herself and get Marjane; this wasn't like her extracurricular meanderings through the Narrows, this already involved Safe Haven. She couldn't go maverick on her employer. So what options were left?

Long after night had plunged the living room into darkness, Annabeth remained on the couch, thinking. And that was how the Batman found her.

"Sitting in the dark. Not exactly healthy behavior."

Annabeth didn't start at the sound of his voice, rasping out in the darkness. And as he crossed the room to stand in front of her, she didn't even seem surprised to see him. "I thought I told you to knock."

He took in her disheveled, sickly, cocooned state. "Would you have answered?"

"Not if I thought it was you." The glare she gave him lacked her usual ire, and just then, a cough seized her. "What do you want? I'm assuming you're not here for the stimulating company."

"I'm not." He began to pace about her living room. "Does the name Nathan Parris sound familiar to you?"

Annabeth dug deep into her sickness-addled memory. After a moment, she nodded hesitantly. "I think so..." Recognition dawned then. "_Yes__. _Nathan Parris. He owns a brothel, filled to the gills with women he's acquired through illegal means—"

"Immoral, too." The Batman was clearly in an unforgiving mood. "Parris is dead."

_"Dead?" _Annabeth was surprised. "There was nothing in the paper..."

"There won't be. The FBI's involved now."

He watched with pride as Annabeth began thinking through this information. She was exhausted and sick, yet her mind never ceased. Perhaps if she had taken care of herself, her body would not have quit on her, either. Not for the first time, he was poignantly aware of the similarities of their goals and missions.

"Parris is dead. Presumably by the hand of the Arrows?" Annabeth waited for his curt nod in the affirmative. "I think I know what they're trying to do."

"I think so, too."

Becoming agitated, Annabeth began to untangle herself from the blanket she had wrapped around herself. "The Arrows are trying to monopolize Gotham's sex trade-"

"-take out the pimps and intimidate the prostitutes-"

"-eliminate any competitition-"

"-and _now _they've killed Gotham's main player in the human trafficking trade," the Batman finished.

"They want to get control of that market, too." Annabeth stopped pacing and stared at him from across the room. "Global sex trafficking is _extremely _lucrative, and incredibly unregulated. You realize, with the resources the Arrows has, they'll be able to expand that market in a way Nathan Parris never could?"

"Would they be able to? Wouldn't people object?"

"Jesus, are you always this naive?" Annabeth resumed her pacing. "You really think that the men who are paying for time with these women pause to ask their life stories? They're not going to stop and say, 'Hey, Natasha, thanks for the blow job, and by the way, is this something you willingly do or are you forced?'"

"Are there really that many?" Even discussing this made him feel filthy. Who would do this to a woman, a child?

"At least ten thousand women are trafficked into America each year. They were kidnapped or sold into this, or lured to America with the promise of clean, easy jobs. And once they get here, they're locked up, beaten, drugged, raped, starved into submission. Nathan Parris was the only man in Gotham that ran a brothel with unwilling Natashas and other prostitutes...I never really thought that it would take off here like in other cities." She stared at the Batman with eyes that seemed to penetrate his armor. "But god, I've been stupid. It'll take off, alright, with the Arrows backing it. Don't forget, sex sells because people are buying."

He didn't disagree.

"You think this is what that woman was talking about?" she asked. "The woman who contacted me, said that she had information. You think this is the 'big thing' she said was going down?"

"I do."

"You said the FBI is involved now?" Annabeth's eyes temporarily brightened. "Then we don't need her information anymore. The Feds have it covered." Even as she said this, however, she watched the Batman's mouth tighten into an unhappy grimace. She didn't like what he was about to say.

"I told Gordon about her. He's not happy about it, but we need more information from her." Inwardly, he braced for her reaction, which was not long in coming.

"_No!" _Even that exclamation taxed Annabeth, and she fell into another fit of coughing. After she caught her breath, she tried to dissuade her unlikely ally. "So long as she does this, she's in danger. We need to get her out of that situation. How do we know that they're not going to try to force _all _the sex workers into a situation like the Natashas? She could be at risk, along with the rest of them." But it was almost impossible, she knew—trying to imprison and beat into submission thousands of women was a little bit beyond the capabilities of even the Arrows. It was one thing to intimidate, another thing entirely to compel through outright force. Better to let the women be free agents and bring in Natashas for more lucrative—and ultimately disposable—workers.

"The Arrows are trying to get the financial backing of some of the power players in Gotham," The Batman snapped, his voice harsh with impatience. "If we continue getting information, we can find out who they are."

Annabeth's shoulders slumped in defeat, and she shuffled back over to the couch. He watched, and then said in a slightly less forceful voice, "We need to incapacitate the Arrows. The only way to do that is to take away their financial and political power, too."

Damn the man, she hated that he was right. "This needs to end. Soon."

"I agree. You have to give me any information that woman gives to you."

"It's not exactly like I can shoot you an email," Annabeth snapped. "Apparently you like to play hard-to-get."

"I'll be by more often." He began to move towards her bedroom, no doubt headed towards the fire escape. But then he heard her speak again.

"Wait."

He turned around and watched as Annabeth came to the end of a struggle within herself. She lifted her chin a tiny fraction, an unconscious gesture of defiant pride. "I need your help." Her eyes challenged him to mock her or deny her plea.

The Batman cocked his head. "I'm listening."

If Annabeth were to be honest with herself, she would have to admit this was a plan she had not thought through at all. But she did know that there was no other obvious solution. "I have a friend in trouble. She's sixteen years old, and she's in a bad situation. She's with a man who has already hurt here once. I need for you to get to her and bring her to a safe place, and I need for you to make sure that man never goes near her again."

"I don't kill." He said this flatly, in a tone that made it very clear this was not open to discussion.

If Annabeth thought it odd that he was refusing to kill a man when he was already wanted by the cops for the death of several others, she did not question it. "I don't want you to kill him. Anything else goes." There was a nasty little gleam in her eyes that bespoke of her hope that not only was this "anything else goes" caveat acceptable, it was downright desirable. "Look, this is a young girl that needs help—and I can't help her." This cost her a great deal of pride to admit this to him, that he could see. "This is no big rescue mission, it's not the First Lady or the Virgin Mary, no one famous. There's no glory in this. Just the honor of helping one good woman."

"Sounds like I'd be helping two."

She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the compliment, and then fixed him with her piercing stare. "Well? Will you help?"

He had already been planning a mission to retrieve Marjane, but Annabeth would never know it. "I will. Where is she?"

"Last we knew, her husband lives in an apartment near here, at the edge of Bordertown. If he's still there, that's probably where he has her." Annabeth proceeded to give him the address, and to instruct him to where Marjane needed to be delivered once she was in Metropolis. As she spoke, she found herself getting more and more drowsy; the intensity of this meeting had drained her, and her throat was getting sore all over again. She wanted nothing more to slip back into sleep.

The Batman saw this. "I will extract her." He began to move for her bedroom once more, but she said something that stopped him.

"She's not a flavoring—don't _extract her," _she told him tartly, her voice sharpening with anxiety as she delivered the next piece of information. "She's pregnant, and she wants to keep the baby. For the love of god, be careful. Make sure she's okay. And _don't _terrify her, either."

"That's a pretty tall order." There was nothing, no quirk of the mouth, no change in his look, to indicate this was a joke. "But I'll get her out."

Enough. Annabeth's body gave way, and she settled back onto the sofa, no longer able to care about the Batman or anything else other than her own sickness and the need to recover. Even before the Batman had climbed out onto the fire escape, she was dead to the world, and unable to see him return to the living room once more. Stealthily, and with great care, he placed her blanket over her and made sure that it was tucked around her shivering body. Only when he was satisfied that Annabeth would remain warm did the Batman slip back into the night.


	21. Chapter 21

Contrary to its promising name, Gotham View Condominium did _not _offer a view of Gotham. As condominium complexes in Gotham went, Gotham View was modest-only eight stories high. The only view it offered was merely that of the street below and the surrounding, taller buildings. It _did, _however, offer spacious and reasonably-priced condominium units to middle-class folks eager to own a little piece of real estate within the city limits. It was located in a decent residential neighborhood populated by equally respectable people-hardworking people with normal lives, individuals and couples and families just trying to get by.

But was that really the case?

For the better part of Tuesday afternoon and evening, he sat in the Volvo Alfred had, with disturbing efficiency, acquired for the stake-out. From the Volvo, he watched the foot traffic around the neighborhood, observing its ebbs and flows. Being stuck in one place for an extended period of time inevitably led to introspective musings, and Bruce couldn't help but ponder this sinister train of thought. How many of the men and women ducking into their homes were exactly as they seemed—how many of them were returning to happy, or at least relatively stable, homes? How many of them were returning to families only to make them miserable? Briefly, he remembered the children of Safe Haven, more than a few of whom had been sexually abused. How many of these men and women were going to their homes to enact or enable those horrible acts? What was going on behind those curtained windows, behind those deceptively flimsy doors?

Finally, Alfred interrupted his solitary musings. "Master Wayne, if I may ask, what is the purpose of this?"

It was almost 7 PM. by that point, and both of them were stiff from spending several hours inside the vehicle. Darkness had fallen, and the majority of the neighborhood had retreated indoors to lead their evening lives.

"Observation, Alfred." Bruce glanced at the information he had written down when he had returned to the Manor the previous weekend._Gotham View Condominiums. 655 Central Beech Grove Street. Unit 48. _It was where Marjane's husband lived, and it was where he expected to find Marjane-or else "persuade" her husband to reveal where she was at. "I don't have a lot of time to pull this off, but I need to plot what logistics I can." He shifted about, trying to find a more comfortable position-higher-end car though it may be, it certainly wasn't intended for any sort of long-term living arrangement.

"When do you plan to do this rescue operation, Master Wayne?"

"Tomorrow night." Bruce frowned as he watched a man strolling down the sidewalk. He was of medium build, with a somewhat sallow complexion. His attire was that of any Gotham businessman-a decent suit, looking a little worn from a day's work. The only description he had to go on was a verbal one, given by Annabeth, who had in turn been told one evening by Marjane. Could this be her husband?

The man scurried past the Volvo, not giving a second glance at the vehicle that no doubt blended in reasonably well amidst all of the Corollas, Civics, and Escorts parked along the street. Once more, Bruce admired Alfred's resourcefulness and presence of mind—he would have been content to take the Rolls, and had only changed his mind when Alfred persuaded him that a Rolls in a middle-class neighborhood would stick out as much as…a man dressed as a bat would on a crowded Gotham sidewalk. Sometimes, Bruce suspected that he wouldn't have nearly the amount of success that he did if Alfred were not there beside him. Only Alfred's smugness prevented Bruce from expressing this hunch—the old man didn't need any more reason to feel justifiably superior.

As he passed by, the light of the streetlamp overhead illuminated the man, and Bruce could see the funny scar on the man's neck-one of the characteristics in Marjane's description. "That's him." Bruce stared intently, memorizing the man's posture, his movements, his bearing. He doubted the man would be put up much of a fight, but he made it a point to never underestimate an opponent.

"_That's _the fellow that you intend to beat into a pulp?" Alfred craned his neck to watch the man and voiced thoughts disturbingly similar to Bruce's. "He looks like an accountant."

"Actually," Bruce smiled with little pleasure, "he is."

"I must say, sir, I imagine he will be quite open to reasoning if faced with a costumed man with a notorious penchant for violence. Is it really necessary to unleash your...brand of persuasion?"

It was a valid question. If Bruce, as the Batman, could persuade through words, rather than violence, why should he resort to force? If he _did _resort to force unnecessarily, did that weaken his moral stance? Did it make him more of the vicious, heartless vigilante the media painted him as, and that the citizens of Gotham currently loathed? But even as he pondered this question, a memory flashed into his mind: Marjane, when she first arrived at Safe Haven, beaten, bruised, bloody, and practically incoherent with terror. God only knew how she managed to find out about Safe Haven to begin with, and how she had managed to make her way there. She was sixteen, and should still be a child. Instead, she was _having _a child—if her husband had not already forced her to get rid of it—and she was probably even now trapped in this s home.

Some things in the world didn't change. Some people didn't respond to reason. But they recognized brute force, they used it when they could, they respected it in others when they had to. He suspected that Marjane's husband was one of these, one who would use violence as his own expression of power. Even after he got Marjane away, what would stop that man from returning to Iran and acquiring another child-bride? No, the Batman would bring violence down upon this man, because that was the language that they both spoke and understood.

"I think this man will appreciate my form of persuasion, Alfred." Bruce wondered if he should explain to Alfred his theory, but Alfred seemed to accept this succinct reply with little reproach.

"Very well, sir. But when the police ask me some day why my employer chose to dress up as a bat and beat up on officious accountants, I will simply say that you didn't agree with their tax assessments."

The two men fell into a companionable silence again as Bruce carried on with his surveillance and observations, but not before Alfred took one final shot:

"I certainly hope the paparazzi aren't nearby. This would be very difficult to justify: '_Hard times: Billionaire Bruce and Butler Living Out of Car.'"_

* * *

Whether or not they had ever been to America, everyone had their own version of the American Dream. Of this, Taher Radan was utterly certain. It was a strange, mythical concept that seemed to penetrate all cultures, hypnotizing, beguiling, and seducing until its victims—_beneficiaries?—_were utterly obsessed with the possibility of coming to the Promised Land. Of course, the American Dream was much more appealing to those in suppressed or economically struggling countries; Taher knew this from firsthand experience. He had grown up in Iran, had remembered what it was like prior to the Revolution, and the Iran that emerged afterwards was enough, in and of itself, to drive any secular Persian to the brink of desperation. But to live in Iran after the Revolution, while hearing of America's charms and freedoms and prosperities—oh, that was torture.

Taher's American Dream emerged in the years after the Revolution, as he watched his home and life in Northern Tehran torn apart by the repressive regime. He imagined moving his father, a distinguished professor, to America, where he could teach without fear of reprisal; he dreamed of moving his mother and sister to America, where they could walk the streets without worrying about the Morality Police who had begun patrolling the streets and sidewalks of Iran. He dreamt of this, oh, how he did, but only part of the dream came true: he came to America, after three years of bribing and string-pulling to obtain the necessary papers, permissions, and passports, but he had been forced to leave his family behind in Iran.

And the America of which Taher had dreamt? Well, it existed, to a certain extent. He was able to speak his mind and amuse himself as he pleased, he was allowed to work and earn and spend his money as he pleased. But, surprisingly, he missed Iran—he missed the architecture, the culture, the insular families, the gossip, the drama, the food—_oh, the food—_the history, the literature. He was alone in America, and he found his dream not quite complete.

That was when he realized that he wanted to share the American dream with someone—he wanted a good Persian girl, high maintenance and refined, desperate for the freedom and the luxuries of the West, yet still appreciative of her own traditions and culture. If he could find her, he was certain, the American Dream would come true. He would have it all, the American dream melded with the Persian culture.

Finding her, well, that had been more difficult. There wasn't a large Persian community in Gotham, and he found it difficult to meet the type of Persian girl he sought. To begin with, the ladies whom he met found him to be too old for their preferences—already, they were slipping into that American way of worshipping young men—and anyway, he found them to be disappointingly ignorant of their Persian roots. Most of them had been reared in America, and had adopted the American lifestyle. No, he wanted a girl who was_Persian, _first and foremost, and untainted by some of the more decadent, immoral aspects that had marred the older Persian girls that he had encountered in Gotham.

It was a friend of his from the office who had suggested returning to Iran to find a bride. Taher had not been fond of the idea at first; after all, returning to Iran was a risk all its own. But upon further reflection, it appeared to be just the right solution—and some of his clients were powerful men who owed him favors for helping them avoid hefty tax payments. With their help, he would be able to expedite the process of bringing a bride over, regardless of whether or not she would have the appropriate passport. Marriage to a young girl would not be difficult in Iran, either, not nearly as tricky—or illegal—as it would be if he tried it in America. And so, Taher had made the long trek back to his homeland, and despite the potential peril, he made it there and back safely-with a wife in tow. A Persian wife, just as he hoped, a young woman who was eager for the West yet happy to cling to some of the lovely traditions of their country.

All of two days passed before Taher learned that the reality of his wife deeply contradicted his idea—this Marjane whom he had married was as young as he had hoped, yet not as traditional as he had hoped...she had been spoiled and indulged by her family, and never ceased sniveling over how much she missed them. As a wife, she was completely useless, and he made no efforts to conceal or restrain his rage and disappointment. Taher was a modern man in that he loved the secular luxuries of the west, but a traditional man in that he believed in a man's place at the head of the home. Come hell or high water, he would make sure Marjane fell into line with his view.

Then there was that business of her running away. Even now, as Taher recalled this embarrassing episode, he ground his teeth in humiliated anger. A man who could not keep order in his own home was no man at all, and he could only thank his stars that the Persian community in Gotham was so tiny-there was no one to notice or care that Taher Radan couldn't keep his silly wife in order. In the end, it had been her parents that revealed to him Marjane's location; they had worried for their daughter and believed life with her husband was safer than life alone in America. Taher had made his way to Metropolis—_how on earth had she wound up there?—_and with more physical than verbal persuasion, he brought her back to Gotham. A round of hard smacks about her head, as well as some well-placed kicks and a sound shaking, was enough to bring her into line-all of that, and, of course, being locked in the bedroom, where she was at the moment.

No, having a useless _gaav _of a wife was not Taher's American Dream-it was more of a nightmare. Little did he know it was one from which he would soon awake, to find that reality was far worse.

On that bitterly cold night in late October, as Taher made his way down the sidewalk towards his condominium building—he had parked his old BMW in the garage one block over—he was blasted with an icy gust of wind, and he burrowed deeper into his jacket. To save on electricity, he had turned off the heat before he left for work that morning-no doubt Marjane would be whining about how cold she was. He ground his teeth as he considered this, and quickly transformed his grimace into a smile as he passed his neighbors, the Dahls, as they came out of the building. Mr. Dahl was a pediatrician, and his wife was a schoolteacher; he cheated on her, and she drank copious amounts. Taher was willing to bet everyone in his building had some sort of secret life-

_-like an underaged wife locked in the back bedroom._

* * *

Once the sun had set, all of the light had fled the room, taking with it what little warmth there had been in the cramped, unheated bedroom. The bitter cold was what finally brought Marjane awake; as sleep receded, she realized she was shivering too hard to stay asleep any longer.

But there was something else which awakened her as well-the muffled sounds of life coming from the rest of the condo. A door opening, slow and heavy footsteps, the sound of keys jangling, the music and voices of the television. Taher was home. She wondered, briefly, if he would come into the bedroom, but finally decided she simply no longer cared. She was cold, hungry, injured, and frightened, and all of these unpleasant conditions had conspired to leave her depressed and in no position to try to remedy her situation. For two days now, she had been left in here, left to her thoughts, her fears, her self-recriminations.

And there were plenty of the last: calling her family in Iran had been the worst choice she could have made, and she realized it as soon as she heard the anxious voices of her mother and father. But oh, how she had missed them. Her new family in Metropolis—Noushin, her husband Salman, and their daughters—had been nothing less than kind and considerate, but how did one simply forget one family and take on a new one? It was hard, _too _hard, and there were only so many tears Marjane could cry before she realized that she needed to hear her own mother's voice. After all, she was herself only a few months away from being a mother

Her parents meant well, and she liked to think they never would have allowed the marriage if they had known what Taher was truly like...but then, when she had tried to explain during that foolish phone call, they hadn't listened. They remained on the phone only long enough to learn where she was, and that was what sealed her fate. She hung up shortly after, and never mentioned the phone call to Noushin and Salman. She didn't want to worry them.

Only a day or two after that, as she was returning home, she was snatched. Right off a busy street, by none other than the man who had haunted her dreams for months. And the nightmare hadn't ceased since then.

Taher had tossed a thin blanket at her that morning before he left the condo; now, in the grey twilight gloom, as the cold began to penetrate even deeper into her devastated body, she clutched the blanket tighter around her. Would he bring her anything to eat tonight? It was horrible and degrading that he had reduced her to this desperation, had reduced her to hoping for nothing more than basic nourishment. But she still had the baby, and she was desperate to make sure she did everything she could to make sure it stayed that way.

Before Marjane had left Iran, her mother had pulled her aside, and with one final embrace, had told her, "Marriage is a _dard-e-beedarmoon"—_apain without a cure. Had her mother known what she was sending her daughter in to? As Marjane pondered this, she put a protective arm around her belly and prayed silently that she would not ever do that to her child. _If it was ever born._

It was this bittersweet thought to which she clung as she rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Sleep was the only thing that could take her away from this horror-even though waking up was almost as awful as anything. Sleep would take away her anxieties about the baby; it would take away her fear and her hunger; and it would dull the pain from her head and face, where Taher had hit her so many times.

Sleep did not come. However, something else did.

A split second after Marjane became aware of another presence in the room, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.

_"Don't make a sound."_

The voice was barely above a whisper, and yet it carried the power of a voice bellowing off the top of a mountain. Her eyes widened as she registered the origins of the voice: a looming figure overhead, its bulk only slightly darker than the grey gloom around it. She had the presence of mind to reach for the lamp next to her bed and pull the switch, flooding the small room with harsh light, and nearly giving herself a fright in the process. An unknown, shadowy figure in the darkness was far less terrifying a sight than the enormous figure dressed in inky black who now stood before her, looking all the more frightening for the contrast between his outfit and the bright light that now illuminated the room.

Marjane was by no means proficient in the English language, but she had acquired enough to know she was looking at the creature all the newspapers she had read were talking about: the Batman.

Frightened brown eyes met determined, ice-blue eyes that stared at her from the cowl covering his face. His gloved hand remained pressed down on her mouth; with his other hand, he silently put a finger to his lips. She nodded once, and he removed his hand and stepped back.

Only then, once the Batman had quelled her fright and diffused any potential outburst, did he truly take in her appearance: her face was every bit as swollen and bruised as the day she had first stepped through the doors of Safe Haven. Her lip was split, and dried blood had crusted on to it. Several small bruises, roughly the size of finger tips, marbled her neck and arms. Quickly, he scanned his eyes over the rest of her body: she was pale and shivering, and there was a gentle swell at her midsection, where her pregnancy was just beginning to show. She was still pregnant-although that was about the only thing promising about her. If anything, she looked worse than when she had escaped, and she certainly looked more terrified.

"Can you stand? Can you walk?" He snapped these questions out quickly, trying hard not to betray the rage building within him.

She nodded hesitantly.

"I'm going to get you out of here. Wait, and stay out of the way."

The Batman moved away from the bed then, his movements decisive, silent, and lightning-quick. He glanced back at Marjane, once; she was still cowering on the bed, perhaps petrified with fright, but as their eyes met, he saw something shift in her stance-she became more aware, more watchful. She tensed up, as though ready to run. Her survival instinct had kicked in. _Good._

As he moved to the door, he tried not to think about Marjane. If he did, the rage that was boiling just below the surface would come bursting forth in a deadly, scalding-hot geyser of violence that would destroy anything in his path. _"I don't kill," _he told Annabeth, and he had meant it. He was no judge, no juror, no executioner, he was only an instrument to bring someone to justice. And failing that, he was a protector. But looking at Marjane's young, frightened face; sensing her fear for her unborn child, knowing that he was currently the only hope she had in an unfair world, was enough to challenge his most basic tenets. What he was about to do, whatever it was, was maybe the only justice Marjane's husband would ever experience.

And with that, he kicked open the bedroom door.

* * *

When the Batman came crashing out of the bedroom—taking half the door with him—Taher was sitting on the couch, watching television. He did not remain there, however; surprisingly, he jumped up, prepared to defend himself and his home. But beyond the initial punch that he threw, he never stood a chance. Even if the Batman did not have the element of surprise on his side, there would have been no challenge whatsoever. Later, when he described the scene to Alfred, he had to admit that he was disappointed. He _wanted _more of a fight; he _wanted to _inflict pain; he _wanted _the man to know how Marjane felt. As it was, the Batman intercepted Taher's blow, simply grabbing his arm in his iron-grip and forcing it behind his back and up, up—until he heard the satisfying _snap _of a bone. Taher's howl of pain was loud and genuine, but cut mercifully short as the Batman released his arm and spun him around. His movements were short, sharp, and forceful-several blows, delivered in quick succession, brought Taher to the floor, lying on his belly, groaning, barely conscious.

The Batman knelt down beside him and whispered, almost gently, in Taher's ear. "Sometimes life is worse than death, especially with the right amount of pain. And I know how to make you feel that pain. Never come near Marjane again. If you do, your life will be a waking nightmare." He placed a gloved hand on the back of Taher's neck, near a vital point, and applied a precise amount of pressure. "Feel this?"

Frantically, Taher nodded.

"Remember that pain the next time you think you want to hurt someone." The Batman pressed harder, and smiled in grim satisfaction as Taher passed into unconsciousness.

He stood up, and saw Marjane standing in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed protectively around herself. "We're leaving."

She simply stared out into the living room, uncomprehending.

Was she in shock? Thinking fright had perhaps temporarily robbed her of her ability to comprehend English, he tried speaking to her in Farsi, but no-still no reaction. It was something else that kept her so still. She was transfixed, not by the Batman, but by the prostrate form of Taher, lying on the floor.

"We have to go. Now." His tone was commanding, and he moved back toward the bedroom, to the window by which he had entered the condo. "Marjane."

Even uttering her name did not achieve the desired affect, so he gripped her arm and gave a tug. Surprisingly, she shuffled along willingly enough, but could not tear her eyes away from Taher. The Batman felt a surge of desperate impatience-and then Marjane spoke, making him stop in his tracks.

"I do not want to forget how he looks now."

He glanced down at her, and saw she had looked away from Taher and was now regarding him with face of grim satisfaction. "You brought to him what he has been making me feel. You make him have much pain."

The Batman nodded silently. Together they stood side by side, gazing down at Taher. After a moment, Marjane spoke again. "I do not know who you are. But I must trust you. I have no one else."

"You're coming with me." His answer was characteristically terse. "I'm taking you to your friends. Are you hurt badly? Can you walk on your own?"

Marjane nodded, her eyes once more growing wide as she considered the unknown before her.

The Batman led her back through the bedroom, to the window. "We'll get to the alley below. My vehicle is there, and I'll take you to where you need to go." Without giving her a moment to protest or consider the logistics, he shot his grappling gun and grabbed onto Marjane. "Hold on."

As the Batman carefully lowered them to the bottom of the building, he could not suppress a wry realization: _Between Annabeth and Marjane, I'm getting good at this._

The Tumbler was waiting there in the alley, and the Batman helped Marjane into it before leaping in himself. As he waited for the system to kick in and plan the route to Metropolis, he turned to the young girl. The close quarters of the vehicle should have made it a perturbing situation, but he didn't even think about it. He set to work, examining her head, her neck, checking for massive injuries. The adrenaline that had carried her through the lightning-fast escape had left her and rendered her passively silent and submissive.

"Are you cold?" His voice, normally so raspy, was surprisingly deep and loud in the small space. She nodded, once, and he quickly produced a blanket from a supply kit that Alfred had placed in the Tumbler earlier in the day. It was a lightweight blanket, made of a wool blend meant to trap heat with maximum efficiency, and he could think of no better time to see how well it worked. He unfurled it and threw it over her shivering body, noting that in her jeans and shirt-no doubt the same that she had been wearing when Taher snatched her—she was woefully underdressed.

There was a bottle of nutrient-reinforced water in the kit as well, and he pulled that out and placed it into her hands. "Drink this."

Having tended to her the best he could, he began to focus on the journey ahead. Metropolis was two hours away in traffic; without traffic, he could get there a lot sooner. The Tumbler would slip through the night, surprisingly unnoticeable. He had thrown the engine into "quiet" mode, and provided he stuck to the darker roads and didn't pull any major traffic snafus, there was no reason to think they would attract unwanted attention.

As they drew away from the alley, Marjane turned to look back, only to find that there was no looking back; no rear windshield or mirrors were on this vehicle. She could only look forward, which was just as well, the Batman thought. Marjane needed to heal, to move past this, to forget. But the Batman could not tell her this. He could only return her to Metropolis and try his hardest to make sure Taher Radan never entered her life again.

After a moment, he heard a stifled, strangled sound. He turned to Marjane, and saw that she had leaned forward and buried her head in her knees. She was crying. No doubt the shock had worn off, to be replaced with the far worse sensations of fear, pain, and uncertainty. She had a long, lonely road ahead of her, and it was a road he understood all too well. It was a road she would have to walk alone as she grew to adulthood and learned to trust again, and tried to make a home for herself in this strange country, far from her real family and her past.

Almost hesitantly, he reached out and stroked her head, once, and left his hand resting there, lending his own strength to her silent struggle of pain. Marjane would be alone in many ways, but not tonight, not as he took her back to the only home she had.


	22. Chapter 22

Halloween in Gotham City was always an interesting event. Historically, the Police Commissioner would put as many police officers on duty as possible, sometimes pushing the City's budget to the breaking point. The mayor would complain, bluster, and threaten to suspend the Commissioner, the Commissioner would bluster and complain right back and describe a city gone wild with hooligan kids on a sugar high getting into Halloween hijinks as their negligent parents partied into the night, indifferent and oblivious to the mischief unfolding underneath their noses. Faced with this potential anarchy, the Mayor would back down, the Commissioner would schedule every available officer, and hooligans got up to Halloween hijinks and negligent parents partied anyway. In the most pathetic way possible, it was becoming a Gotham tradition.

None of these issues ever deterred anyone from their Halloween fun. Children invaded the malls and suburbs and larger condominiums and co-ops, filling the building with their shrill laughter as they stormed home after home, store after store. Some community organizations would band together and put on Haunted House productions and tame, family-friendly Halloween parties, but this did little to stave the chaos of the evening.

Even in her home, eight stories off the ground, Annabeth could hear the Halloween revelries unfolding below. The cold snap had finally broken, and while it was still chilly, she opened up the window and let the biting air into the condo, freshening out several days of stale, sick air. As she sat on the couch, she listened to the neighborhood children's shouts, cries, and laughter floating in through the open window. To the west, a brilliant, reddish-gold glow filled the sky as the sun slipped away, bringing in another autumn evening in Gotham.

Annabeth leaned partway out the window and inhaled deeply, pulling the biting air into her lungs and feeling it burn there. Even though she was still sick, she didn't care. The cold air felt brilliant, and it revived her more than anything she had done all day. She had finally broken down and gone to her doctor, who said she had bronchitis and had given her a lecture on taking care of herself. But now she was getting better, little by little, and she had taken a long, steamy bath in the afternoon and spent the rest of the day cleaning up the apartment. Five days of being stuck inside as she wallowed in her depression and sickness had not been conducive to an orderly and pleasant home.

Someone knocked on her door, and she sighed and got up, suspecting that a brigade of children had finally began marauding through the building. Janey had obligingly brought her a bag of chocolate earlier in the week, and it sat on the console table by the front door, waiting to be distributed.

Without bothering to check the peephole, she opened the front door, prepared to be engulfed by a horde of costumed children—

—and instead found Bruce Wayne standing at her threshold, clutching a brown grocery bag.

"Trick or treat?" he offered with a lopsided smile.

Annabeth gaped at him. His appearance was about as expected as a genuine ghost or goblin. "You're not in costume," she said stupidly.

"Then you won't give me any candy?"

Completely befuddled, Annabeth stepped away from the door and opened it wider, a silent invitation for him to come in. Bruce obliged, sweeping past her, walking in, and setting down the brown bag, she thought with a vague sense of resentment, as though he owned the building. _Oh, wait. He does._

She closed the door and began to go through the process of locking it-the basic lock on the handle, the three deadbolts, the chain. Turning around, she saw Bruce watching her with bemusement.

"It's Gotham," she shrugged.

He didn't answer. They stood facing each other, five feet apart, and it occurred to Annabeth that she hadn't seen him since the night of the fundraiser. They had talked the evening after, and made plans to straighten things out, but it seemed as though a year's worth of life had intervened, preventing that from happening. And now here they stood, separated with a seemingly impregnable wall of awkwardness. What would they say to each other?

_At least I'm too sick for any more kissing. That's one less thing to worry about. _Despite this rueful thought, Annabeth was honest enough with herself to admit that this was a little disappointing. She was distracted from this thought as she noticed her pets ambling towards Bruce, sniffing curiously at the new intruder. Wurzel gave one querulous meow before he licked Bruce's shoe, and Jed simply sat before him, wagging his tail eagerly. Bruce squatted down and gave each of the animals some attention, letting Wurzel sniff his hand as he scratched Jed's head with the other. The older he got, the more he liked animals—they were so much more open and simple. You knew where you stood with them.

Annabeth was amazed. "That's so strange. They're not usually that friendly with a new person. You usually have to be here a couple of times before they get used to your scent enough to be social." She squatted down beside Wurzel and added her own gentle petting. Thus engaged, they passed several minutes, just petting and playing with the animals. It was neutral territory.

Finally, Bruce spoke as he continued to fondle Jed's ears. "I heard about Marjane." His voice was soft. "I'm so sorry."

It was the tone of his voice-she could tell he _was _sorry, he _was _upset, he _did _understand. After all, he had been there when Marjane arrived at the doors of Safe Haven, he had been the first one to really help her. Annabeth began to see his sincerity, and that was enough to break down her final reserves. As he regarded her, his eyes filled with compassion, Annabeth's face began to crumble. "I-I'm sorry..." She sniffed noisily. "Oh, hell." And with no further ceremony, she plopped herself down on the floor and began to cry.

Without thinking any more about it, Bruce sat down beside her and simply threw his arms around her, encasing her in an enormous, strong hug. Passively, she leaned into his chest and simply allowed herself to luxuriate in the feeling of his arms tightening their hold around her. His jacket was cold against her cheek, and she heard the quiet _whump-whump-whump _of his heart, felt his chest rise and fall in time with his breaths, smelled his cologne and his faint personal scent.

After a moment, she began to pull away, and he released his hold. She struggled to stand, and with the vigor of a man who had not spent the last week battling a cold and bronchitis, Bruce sprung up and hauled her to her feet. She started to move back towards her armchair, but Bruce's voice stopped her cold.

"I heard about Marjane-and then I just found out...she's okay."

She stared at him with wide, surprised eyes. "What?"

"I just heard-she turned up yesterday in Metropolis. She got away. She's safe."

Annabeth gasped, and it was a noise choked with laughter and tears. "I don't believe it. I was afraid we lost her." Almost involuntarily, she shook her head and let out a delighted laugh, and this time, there were no tears. She hugged him, impulsively, and that was a surprise to both of them. "He pulled through." She said this softly, almost to herself, but not softly enough.

"Huh?" Bruce cocked his head quizzically to one side.

"Nothing." Annabeth was smiling. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. _Marjane. _Thank god." Shakily, she made her way to one of the armchairs and collapsed. "I was so worried about her."

"I was, too." Bruce had followed her into the living room, and hovered there uncertainly. "Alfred and I talked about hiring a private investigator to try to find her...and I was worried about you, too." He took in her pale, wan face, her red-rimmed eyes, her limp hair. "I have to say it—you look like hell."

Annabeth glanced down at her faded pajama bottoms and her grey sweatshirt, and was suddenly uncomfortably aware that she hadn't bothered to put on a bra. "I _look _like hell because I _feel _like hell," she retorted. There would be no embarrassment, no apologies from her. "You try rotting away in your home for a week and see how you look." She glanced over at the brown paper bag Bruce had brought with him and had set down so peremptorily. "What's that? Moonshine?"

"Close." He turned and began to rummage through the bag. "It's a cold care kit that Alfred and I threw together for you." He pulled a thermos out of the bag—"Chicken noodle soup. That's homemade, from Alfred"—a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of honey, and a lemon—"Also Alfred's idea," Bruce said mysteriously, but would not extrapolate—and a small bouquet of flowers. "That's from me." Almost bashfully, he stole a look at her as he handed her the cluster of mums and asters. Silently, she accepted the bouquet and stared down at the simple, cheerful blossoms for a moment before looking up at him again, her eyes shimmering with even more tears.

"You don't like mums?" Bruce tried to play it off. "That's it-Alfred's fired-"

Annabeth laughed weakly, but it was a sound choked with unshed tears. "No. Don't. I'm sorry, it's just me."

"It usually is," he agreed ruefully.

She laughed again, a little more robustly. "I deserved that."

"You usually do," he agreed again. "Wow, I like you when you're sick. So much more agreeable."

"I _am _sick. Be nice to me." She couldn't have sounded more pathetic if she tried.

'"I am being nice to you." Promptly, Bruce took charge. "I'm going to heat up this soup-"

"-do you even know where the kitchen is?"

"-and I am going to fix you this drink that Alfred told me about. It's called a hot toddy."

"So you're going to ruin my kitchen and get me drunk?" Annabeth was amused. "'Cause, you know, letting me have a lot to drink worked out really well the last time."

"You're going to have just enough to make you feel better." Bruce gave her a stern look. "And it wasn't my fault you drank all that champagne. You crazy social workers. Turn you loose at a party and you turn the whole damned place upside down." He left her in the living room and began puttering around the kitchen, where an occasional clink of a glass or clatter of a pot punctuated his conversation. "Nice place, by the way."

"You should know. You own the building."

"I _do _know." He poked his head out of the kitchen and grinned. "But you've done a nice job with it." Bruce meant every word-the lovingly-maintained houseplants, the carefully-chosen art prints, the eclectic assortment of books, all of it evoked a sense of warmth and homeliness he doubted he'd ever experience at the Manor. He found it to be both comforting and lonely.

"It's a ridiculously well-built piece of architecture," Annabeth grudgingly admitted. "Did you know that it's earthquake resistant?"

"I did, actually." Bruce looked absurdly proud. "It's something my father initiated, a long time back. He required all Wayne buildings to be built earthquake-resistant, and then he went right on and had all the older Wayne buildings retrofitted. It cost the company millions of dollars, and it drove some of the men in the company up the wall. Naturally, when I came back to Gotham, I made sure to continue the tradition." He disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Annabeth to ponder the various eccentricities of Bruce Wayne and his ancestors.

Five minutes later, he emerged carrying a tray he had procured from the recesses of one of Annabeth's long-ignored kitchen cabinets. On the tray, he had placed a deep bowl filled with the soup, now piping hot and so fragrant it even penetrated Annabeth's congestion, as well as a glass tumbler filled with steaming, amber liquid. He placed it on the side table by Annabeth. "Down it goes. All of it."

She began to sip at the soup, more to humor him than anything else. After all, he had come here simply to deliver the news about Marjane—_wait_. "How did you find out about Marjane?" she asked.

"Huh?" Bruce had been wandering about her living room, studying the contents of her bookshelves and generally taking in her home. But when she voiced her question, he turned around to her, looking- strangely anxious. "Oh." He shrugged. "I think Maya called to give me the good news. They'll probably be calling you, too."

"Probably." Annabeth resumed sipping her soup, and soon found she was attacking it with some fervor. She was hungrier than she had thought, and Alfred must have acquired some amazing culinary skills somewhere along the line, because the soup was the best she had ever had. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bruce meander back toward the living room and settle down on the sofa—

"No!" she blurted, startling them both, but it was too late. He had settled himself down on the sagging end of the couch, the end that had long ago given up its ghost, although it presented a fairly benign face to the world. It turned malignant at the moment Bruce settled his weight upon the cushion, and with an ominous twanging crunch, the last of the springs gave way and Bruce sank much, much deeper into the sofa.

"Your sofa's broken," he pointed out in a mild voice from the depths of the indentation he now found himself in. With a joyous woof, Jed bounded over to the couch and leapt up onto Bruce's lap, which served only to further underscore the absurdity of the scene. With as much dignity as he could muster, he gently shooed Jed away, hoisted himself out, and scooted over to the sturdier end of the couch. Thankfully, it bore his weight. Jed immediately rejoined him, intent on transferring as much fur from his coat to Bruce as possible. "You ever think of replacing it?"

"Nope." There was a belligerent quality to Annabeth's voice; here again, there would be no apologies. "I'm socking away every cent I can spare."

"Really?" Bruce smiled. "Do you have deep ambitions? Planning to buy me out?"

Annabeth snorted. "Hardly." She continued sipping at the soup, and it appeared as though she was unwilling to discuss it any further. After a moment, however, she spoke again. "I'm saving up," she said, slowly, almost dreading his reaction. "I'd like to open up my own safe house someday." She glared at him fiercely, as though she expected him to laugh, or mock, or completely disregard her dream...none of which, of course, he intended to do.

"You want to establish your own safe house." Bruce repeated this as a statement, not a question. "Don't you like Safe Haven?"

"I do...but I _do _have some goals, some dreams of my own, absurd as it sounds." Annabeth began to sip at the hot toddy, and found its steaming, stiff alcoholic warmth to be both bracing and soothing. "I think it'd be nice to open up a place out in the country. Maybe on an old farm...someplace where there's actual nature, and animals, and trees. Someplace away from all this mess." She gestured towards her window, clearly indicating the vast metropolis sprawled beyond. "Someplace where there's more peace, and less noise, and less people trying to hurt each other. I'm so tired of all of us hurting each other, Bruce."

There were many things that Bruce could bring into his life—countless houses and cars and yachts; fabulous vacations and exciting thrills; an open invitation to the best parties with the most famous people; the security of never having to worry about money. But for all this wealth, all this bounty, all the doors that it opened, there were some doors that remained firmly closed. After Rachel died, one more door had closed, it seemed, and love and companionship had never appeared to be more remote and unreachable; his double identity as the Batman further alienated him. And yet now, as he listened to Annabeth reveal more of herself, more of her view of the world, more of the battles she fought, he began to wonder if perhaps something else were possible. Something more-something as simple and mundane, yet powerful and beautiful as love and a future with someone. And a partner.

"Some place on several acres of land...with some woods, and some fields, too. Growing up in the city, I missed that. I always wanted to get out to the country. Anyway...I think I'd like that...at least for a while," she added sadly.

"Just a while?" Bruce had actually been a little bit taken in by the idyllic picture she had painted. Annabeth feeding chickens, and herding a flock of children about the land-it was oddly fitting. Or perhaps he just liked the idea of Annabeth being away from the rotting city of Gotham, far away, where she couldn't be hurt by this place any more.

"I think I'd miss the city. I think I'd miss being in the middle of where everything happens." The toddy was taking effect and her tongue was loosening. "How is holing myself up in the countryside going to help anything? It's why I didn't go into the ivory tower of academia."

"You didn't want a cushy job as a professor?" Bruce shook his head. "I think you'd make a great arrogant, nutty professor, with flyaway hair, rushing about from class to class, picking on the fraternity boys."

"Not for me." Annabeth had rejected that life thoroughly, even before she had a chance to really get a taste of it. "Walling myself into a university, doing studies and focus groups? No. All of that is useful, and oddly comforting, if you don't want to live. But I wanted to_do something. _I wanted to be out there, fighting for these people, _with _these people. I wanted to be out there in the front lines."

"Is that why you moonlight as a crisis counselor, over at the hospital?" Bruce asked. "For the extra money, or to fight _another _battle on the front lines?" To himself, he thought, _Jesus, no wonder she's sick. She's fighting too many battles on too many fronts._

And then: _Yeah. You know all about that._

"A little of both, actually." Annabeth was unaware of Bruce's internal monologue. "Why does it matter?"

Bruce tried to play it casual, aware of how odd the question would sound. "I just get interested when I hear about people that have these _missions-" _he put the emphasis on those last words, and she could almost see the quotes he used- "and I wonder, what brought them to that point? What drives them?" His tone became serious. "What drives you, Annabeth? What's your story?" In for a penny, in for a pound. "No. If you answer me anything, answer me this, Annabeth. What _happened _the other night? Why'd you run out?"

There it was, the crux of the matter. The enormous elephant in the middle of the room. It was almost a relief to acknowledge it.

"I'm sorry about that, Bruce." Annabeth's eyes were imploring...but for what? "You have every right to be angry with me. And I screwed up."

"I think most of the single women of Gotham would agree with you." But he made this flippant statement with a twinkle in his eye, and she couldn't take him seriously. "I mean it, though. It was confusing. I'm still confused. And I _know _you're confused. And if you don't want to pursue this-_thing _between us_-_that's fine. No hard feelings. But, Annabeth, I want to know what I did wrong."

After he had left later that night, Annabeth would ponder what, exactly, prompted her to tell him. Maybe it was the toddy, or maybe he had simply never asked in such a straightforward way before. "It wasn't you, Bruce. You're a good guy, and I like you, god help me. But I'm...damaged goods. It's not a pretty story, and not every story has a happy ending, remember?"

"I remember." He gave her a pointed look. "I _do _know this."

"I know you do." Annabeth's smile was sad and gentle and it melted the core of ice that he sometimes feared was at the center of his soul. "Bruce..."

Something in her voice sounded completely different, and he looked at her sharply. Annabeth was looking at him with very real apprehension in her troubled brown eyes. Curled up in the armchair, she looked very scared and vulnerable, and her voice sounded very small and hesitant, completely void of its usual power and confidence. "Bruce," she began again, and her voice grew a little stronger as her words gained momentum, "there's something I need to tell you. I need for you to listen to me, and not judge me."

_Never a good start to a conversation, _Bruce mused, but schooled his attention onto her, waiting for whatever revelations she was preparing to present. _This was what Alfred knew. This is what he found out, and what he wouldn't tell me. _As this thought occurred to him, he also realized—and accepted—that the dynamic between he and Annabeth would be forever altered by whatever it was she was about to reveal to him. It was one thing to be treated in a certain way by a person, and another thing entirely to understand _why_. The question for him was, how would it change him? And how would it change the Batman?

He didn't know what to expect, and so he told himself to be prepared for whatever Annabeth was about to say. Nevertheless, her next words still crashed down upon him with an ugliness that curled around him like a filthy, polluted cloud. "Have you ever known someone who was raped, Bruce?"

The filthy pollution closed around him for a moment. He shook his head, and that cleared away some of the foulness. "If I ever knew someone who was, they didn't tell me."

"The funny thing about rape," Annabeth mused, and her tone was so thoughtful, so remote, and her eyes so distant, she could have been discussing the upcoming weekend weather forecast, "is that only a small portion of them ever get reported. There were just over six thusand reported rapes in Gotham last year—_reported _rapes. And only forty percent of victims call the police."

As startled as he was by where this conversation was heading, the seemingly-random fact caught the attention of the Batman in him. "Only forty percent?" he repeated. "But...how—_forty percent?"_

"It's sobering, isn't it?" Annabeth seemed morbidly amused at his disbelief. "You're wondering why so few men and women report rapes?"

He nodded. "I guess I can see why-the shame, the fear..."

"Pretty much. You _know _why, even if you don't _understand. _And that's okay. It's hard to understand the powerlessness, the fear, the trauma. And here's the part that really grabs my attention: there's so many women and men who are raped...so who's doing the raping? And who's being raped?"

"Those are awful thoughts." And it was a question he would be asking himself for a long time to come.

"They _are_ awful thoughts," Annabeth agreed. "And frightening. To sit there and talk with your male acquaintances, day in and day out, and wonder, _is that something he has done? Has he raped someone? _It's not something you can ever ask someone, of course. But it's an important question. And it's a question I try not to think about. You could drive yourself crazy, scare yourself into never leaving your home. Because _someone _is doing the raping, Bruce, and you can bet your butler it's not always someone you can pick out in a crowd._"_

Her words were arrows, shooting straight into his heart-Bruce struggled not to internalize them, and failed miserably. "Is that what you think of me?" he demanded, not bothering to hide his hurt. "Is that something you sit there and wonder about _me?"_

"I don't believe you would do that, Bruce," Annabeth soothed him in a gentler tone than any she had ever before used with him. "I don't think you _could. _Something I'm beginning to see in you is an element of humanity and respect that you might not even be aware you have. I'm sorry...I'm not expressing myself very well. It's just something I think I could spend a lot of time thinking about, if I could. So instead of thinking about the people who rape, and wondering who they are, I try to focus on the victims, and helping_them. _It's much better for your sanity."

"It's horrible to think about-any of it. It's foul." He stated this with conviction, and he didn't bother to clarify what he meant. It was _all _foul.

She nodded. "You're right. But ignoring it won't make the problem go away-if anything, it only creates a society in which rape is allowed to happen. It creates a culture of silence, in which people don't report rapes when they happen. And it's an interesting thing about rape...you've heard that it's not about sex, right? That it's about power?"

"I think I remember something about that...from college." Now that he thought about it, Bruce was ashamed to admit—to himself, he had more sense than to tell this to Annabeth—that he hadn't really paid attention at the time; after all, how did it concern him? _Oh, the arrogance._

"Back in the seventies, a feminist scholar published that concept. What it essentially boiled down to was that men have used rape as a tool-not just a way to hold power over women with the act itself, but with the _threat _of the act. And they can prove their own sense of dominance, through the use of women as an object. By instilling fear of rape in women, they can keep us in line." Annabeth ruminated over this for a moment. "I've thought about that countless times, and sometimes I agree, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I think it might be some sort of learned, subconscious behavior, passed down through the centuries and reinforced. But I can agree—fear is a woman's constant companion, especially in this city. So maybe rape is about fear and power."

In the many years which had lapsed since he had watched his parents die, Bruce had ventured into some very dark places, both in his own head, and in the actual world around him. He had always entered those places alone, and never considered that others, elsewhere, might be wandering through their own darkness. Pain, he was beginning to realize, made people terribly self-absorbed. But now, it seemed, he was about to enter another dark place, only this time it would not be his own. He was about to be the guest in Annabeth's own nightmares.

"Do you see where this is going?" Annabeth asked this gently, with great care, and her eyes shone with compassion, as though she were anxious to protect him from the ugliness of her next words. "I was raped, Bruce."

With those three words, he plunged into the darkness with her.

Even after she revealed this pivotal information to Bruce, Annabeth questioned the wisdom of her decision. When push came to shove, what did she know about Bruce? This debauched playboy had somehow bumbled his way into her life, and despite their many differences and the fact that they went together like chalk and cheese, somehow they had been drawn together. Or, rather, he had been inexplicably drawn to her, and she had never gotten around to repelling him before he wormed his way past her defenses. And now that he had breached her walls, she was about to reveal to him that which she kept most closely guarded.

She scooched her armchair closer to the couch where Bruce sat. This, in and of itself, was a fairly strong indication that Annabeth was speak of something rather difficult and extraordinary- Annabeth never sought out an excuse to come in close physical proximity to him.

For the first time since she had met Bruce, she saw him looking uncomfortable. For one moment, she considered changing the subject, considered halting the story, considered protecting him. He knew enough of the shitty things that life threw at one, didn't he? But if there was thing she had learned, it was that despite outward appearances, she and Bruce were kindred spirits. She had judged him harshly and unfairly; in genuflecting at her own altar of overwrought pain and angst, she had forgotten to do honor at his. The least she could do was to allow him to truly understand her and try to explain.

"All my life..." Annabeth's voice, still hoarse from her cold, sounded thin and frail. "No. That sounds like something out of _David Copperfield. _And this sure as shit ain't Dickens. I'll try to spare you the Victorian sentimentality of the whole damned story."

"I never cared much for Dickens, anyway. Too long-winded." Bruce's feeble humors broke the mounting tension, and Annabeth actually looked a little grateful.

"Could you pass me that blanket?" she asked, gesturing towards the blanket she had burrowed under for the better part of a week, and which was now draped across the back of the couch. Bruce obliged, actually getting up and tossing it across her shoulders before re-seating himself, just as close as they had been before he had stirred himself.

"Thank you." Annabeth paused to cough, a deep-throated, rattling cough, and then swallowed more of her toddy. It bolstered her courage. "All my life, Bruce, has been a game of luck. Bad luck, good luck. It was bad luck that landed me with the sorry parents that I had. It was good luck, I guess, that I never had a really bad foster family. It was good luck that I got a good family at a time when I needed it. It was even better luck that I got a Wayne Foundation scholarship for college, it was good luck that I ran into Donna at the job fair just as I was finishing up my dissertation. It was bad luck that I decided to go out clubbing one night during my freshmen year of college."

She halted her story for a moment and studied Bruce. He had gone completely still, and his face was impassive, but the way that his intense gaze bored into her, she knew he was listening, and if the seeming nonsequetur had confused him, he gave no indication.

"In my spring semester, back in ninety-five, I turned eighteen...I had started college early, when I was seventeen. And living in a dorm, being somewhat independent, it wasn_incredible. _Freedom for the first time in my life, the closest thing to normalcy and stability..." Annabeth smiled at the memory. "To say that dorm life is stable and normal should give you a good indication of what the foster system was like."

Bruce inclined his head slightly in assent, but he was slightly preoccupied in trying to picture Annabeth as an eighteen-year-old college student.

"I was different then." Annabeth seemed to sense his thoughts. "Still had a bit of a wild streak in me. I had gotten my first tattoos by then, and felt pretty hard-core. Pretty bad-ass. I studied enough to get by, and I partied a lot. Janey was my roommate—she's my closest friend now, and that was how we met. We would go out quite a bit, just having a good time. Dancing, flirting. Every now and then, someone would slip us a drink. We were young and having fun." Annabeth took a moment to gather her memories. "Just after I started college, I started dating this guy. Gabriel. He was a tortured soul...you know the type. He fancied himself a poet, very anti-establishment, very scornful of modern consumer culture."

Bruce remembered the type, all too well, from his days-few though they were-at Princeton. They would eschew the company of all others, sulk in the shadows, make cryptic comments about the meaning of life and the nature of death. They were tedious company, complete and utter pretentious ninnies.

"I was _in love," _she said this part with bitter amusement. "And at first, he was very sweet. Very considerate. But the longer we dated, the more possessive he got. And then, one night in the spring, he and I got into a fight about something-I don't even remember what." She peered over at Bruce. "You ever have one of those lover's quarrels? You fight, and then later, it's like, what was it even about?"

There was no safe response for that question, and fortunately for Bruce, she didn't seem to expect an answer, for she continued on. It seemed almost as though, somehow, a dam had burst, and there was no stopping the words that were flooding forth...and the longer and darker her story became, Bruce began to wonder whether or not he wished to hear it. Strangely, though, Annabeth had never looked more beautiful than she did now, her face, her posture unguarded, her face practically glowing with the light of utter openness and honesty.

"Anyway. I was angry, hurt, annoyed, and I wanted to spite him. I got dressed in a nice little clubbing outfit-just a cute dress and some heels, a little on the revealing side. Nothing too fleshy. I _loved _that dress..."

"What happened to it?" Bruce asked, his voice quiet.

"Oh, I don't know. The police took it for evidence. God only knows what happened to it after that. But I'm jumping ahead..." Annabeth frowned. "Oh. Yeah. Janey had to work that night, so I ended up going to the nightclub alone. It was the place we always went, the bouncers and bar-tenders there knew us. It was a great little place. It was crowded that night, moreso than usual...it was the first really warm night of the spring, and people were coming out in droves. And I think some fraternities were initiating their new pledges, the guys they invited to join." She closed her eyes, and all at once she could almost feel the reverberations of the bass, smell the stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer and sweat mingled with cheap perfume, see the flashing, confusing strobe lights, and it was then that she felt a rising wave of panic-

"Annabeth?" Bruce prompted.

She opened her eyes. She wasn't in the nightclub. She was safe in her home with Bruce sitting right there, beside her. His strangely familiar, impassive expression was long gone, and now he only watched her with eyes filled with concern. "Sorry. I was lost in thought there for a moment." She resumed her story, determined to vomit it out like the black poison it was. _Better out than in._ "Anyway, I was having a good old time. Just dancing, flirting, the usual nonsense. Someone had passed me a drink, and I drank it, and then I drank another...I was dancing with several guys, clustered around me. Cute guys, clean cut, happy, friendly. And it was so crowded, and I was starting to get a little buzz going...I didn't notice, they had kind of migrated away from the main crush of the crowds." She glanced over at Bruce, suddenly apprehensive. "You know where this is going, don't you?"

Slowly, he nodded, careful to never look away.

"Well. Let's just say that they separated me from the herd like a pride of lions going after the weakest—excuse me, drunkest—gazelle. Before I realized what was happening, I found myself in an old storage room. With four of the guys with whom I had spent the last two hours dancing." Annabeth looked down and realized she had been clutching her glass, as though she could hang on to her story to the bitter end, prevent it from completely being told. Only the dregs of the toddy remained in the glass, and she decisively set it down with a _clunk _before she continued on. "They raped me, Bruce." She said it flatly, spitting out the foul-tasting words. "All four of them. They held me down on that nasty floor and took turns and they went on for almost two fucking hours."

From an early age, Bruce had been told that he was intelligent. His teachers at prep school had often been floored by his aptitude, and even his parents and Alfred had been a little cowed from time to time. He knew he was smart—but he also knew that, due to the circumstances of his parents' murder and his subsequent grief, he wasn't the best at empathy. But he had a vivid imagination...and he _understood _fear and pain, and he could visualize it. And he was visualizing Annabeth now, young and terrified and pinned down to the floor with leering, indifferent men clustered around her...a taste of bile rose in his throat, and he focused on Annabeth, who was still bravely soldiering on, reliving the battle once more.

"I won't tell you what all they did to me. I don't like thinking about it, now. But you can imagine. Never underestimate man's ability to conjure up new, degrading things to do to others, and I swear to christ, Bruce, it was like those boys had been thinking on it for a _long _time." Annabeth leaned forward, quite suddenly, so that she was very close to Bruce, and for one absurd second, he wondered if she was attempting to kiss him. But no, she was pointing to something on her face: a scar, high up, by her right eye. He remembered, suddenly, seeing it the night of the first fundraiser, so long ago.

"See this?" Annabeth said, touching the scar. "That's from that night. They were pressing my face into the floor, and there was broken glass, and they just ground my face into it as they kept _hurting _me." She temporarily lapsed into a euphemism, and then corrected herself. "As they kept raping me. I'm pretty sure they didn't even know about the glass. But it doesn't matter—the doctor said later, if it had been just a little closer, I would have lost my eye."

"What happened?" Bruce hadn't realized it, but he had slipped into another voice-a voice he used only when he wore a different mask. There was controlled power and rage in his words, and Annabeth looked at him, startled. "What happened, then?" he asked again, carefully keeping his voice lighter, calmer.

Annabeth shook her head. "At one point, towards the end, one of them kicked me in the head. I lost consciousness...I think they probably kept it up for a while, even after. But when I finally came around, they were gone. I was alone. Bruised, bleeding, scratched, sore...It hurt to move, even. But somehow, I managed to. I went back out into the club, and the bartender didn't want to call the police, because of all the underaged drinking...so I went home. Went back to my dorm. I don't remember how I even got there-I must have looked like a goddamned wreck. Dress torn, bleeding, staggering, crying. But I do remember that when I got to my dorm room, I headed straight for the showers."

Bruce released a sigh he hadn't realized he had been holding in. Annabeth heard and nodded. "You understand, right? Know what that means?"

He nodded. He was no expert on violent crimes against wome—at least, he hadn't been, before recently—but even he knew enough to know that showering was the one thing you didn't want to do: it washed away evidence.

"I was in shock...not really thinking." Even now, Annabeth was amazed at her own stupidity. "A million times since then, I've tormented myself with the thoughts, with the what-ifs: what if I had gone straight to the police? Or the hospital? But I didn't. And I didn't even tell Janey that night when she got in from work. I didn't say anything to anyone about it for almost two days. I only told Janey when she walked in on me, crying uncontrollably."

"What did she do?" Bruce probed gently.

"She made me go to the hospital. By then, it was too late. No evidence. They said I had a minor concussion, they treated the cut near my eye, they called in the cops. And Bruce...that was the worst part. The cop that I talked to, some horrible man by the name of Flass." Even now, the memory of his contempt chilled her blood. "He was so horrible. It was the standard victim-blame attitude. You know, 'what were you doing? Did you provoke them?' 'Why were you alone at that club to begin with?_' '_You were wearing _that?' _Instead of trying to solve the crime, he _shamed _me._"_

The entire time Annabeth had been relating this horror story, her voice had been soft, almost detached, the buffer of many years having dulled some of the pain and the horror and the helplessness. But when she told of this part, her voice cracked, and a few tears gathered into her eyes, just as though she had just come from the hospital and the awful treatment she had received. Bruce knew Flass, remembered him from the early days of his return to Gotham; the man had been a horrible pig of a person, not at all the type to handle a traumatized girl with any sort of compassion or professionalism. No wonder Annabeth protected herself behind such a cold, reserved fortress...she had learned in a nightmarishly painful way to trust no one.

"He looked at me like I was filth. I could tell he didn't give a damn, probably didn't even believe my story. The look he had in his little, mean, piggy eyes—Bruce, it scares me to think of men like that, charged with upholding the law."

"It scares me, too." Bruce said this with sincere conviction. He sensed that Annabeth's story was not yet complete, and impulsively, he reached over from his perch on the couch and caught her hand. She glanced down, surprised, but didn't pull away. Instead, she kept her hand in his grasp, felt his grasp tighten, and they remained that way, two souls suspended between couch and armchair, despite the physically awkward angle.

"He took the dress as evidence," Annabeth sighed. "I really did love that dress. But it was ruined. And he left, and it seemed like there was nothing else to be done. So Janey and I went home…and you'd think that's when the nightmare ended, that's when I would start to heal. But no, it just got worse."

Something Annabeth had revealed to him came crashing back into his memory. "That was how you got pregnant, wasn't it?" Bruce asked, scarcely able to believe the horrible luck of it all.

"It was," Annabeth confirmed, and there was such _sadness_ in her now, it almost radiated off of her. How had he ever thought her a simple man-loathing harpy? Oh, the reality was so much more complicated. "And that was the death-knell for me and my boyfriend. He blamed me, too, you see. And the pregnancy was the last straw. He was a possessive boy, and he didn't like to think of me sharing with four other men, let alone a baby."

"Were you going to keep it? The baby?" It seemed like an incredibly personal question, but _hell, _they were past the point of restraint, and Bruce was genuinely curious.

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she stared down at their joined hands for a moment, as though their sudden physical bond held the answer. When Annabeth looked up again, there were tears in her eyes, and on her face as well. "I don't know. I was conflicted…but I didn't have the time to decide, one way or another. I figured out I was pregnant when I was four weeks along, and I dithered for another three weeks—and then one night I was in so much pain I couldn't stand, and I was bleeding all over the place. They took me to the hospital, but it was an ectopic pregnancy, and of course, there would be no baby. No decisions to make, after all. Maybe…" she trailed off, following a path of dark thoughts. "Maybe that was for the best anyway."

Just then, a shrill scream floated up from the streets below and broke through the heavy atmosphere. Both of them sprang to their feet—Annabeth glanced at Bruce in surprise, not expecting his movements to be so fast, so sure—and hurried to the open window.

Annabeth leaned out for a moment, her eyes searching the dark streets below. A group of older children were running down the block, shrieking and laughing as they played about.

"Just some kids." Annabeth almost wanted to laugh. "Poor Commissioner Gordon's going to have his hands full tonight."

She turned around to head back to her seat, but realized that Bruce was right behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, preventing her from moving away. "Annabeth…" He struggled to find the right way to phrase his words; he was accustomed to halting crimes, not dealing with their aftermath, and this was an entirely new experience. "What happened? Did the police ever catch the men who raped you?" He used the same blunt words that she had done, knowing that the only right thing to do was to call an action by its true name.

Annabeth did not attempt to break away from him. Curiously, his hands on her shoulders were a comforting thing, steadying her, grounding her in the present, keeping her from wandering too far down the dark road of her own life. "You know, they did bring in a group of guys. I was fairly certain it was them…but it didn't matter, Bruce. They had wealthy parents, and remember…Gotham was a nasty city then, worse than it is now. I guess we can thank the Batman for something, huh?" She saw the quizzical look Bruce gave her. "At least he's getting rid of some of the corrupt cops. I'm pretty damned sure that the investigators were bought off…those guys walked free after a few hours. They claimed they had alibis, and there was no physical evidence—this was after the pregnancy, so I didn't even have the medical evidence of DNA. And that was the last I ever heard of the investigation."

"They didn't even _try _to press charges? Or pursue other leads?"

"There were seventy-two other reported rapes that week alone." Even now, as she cited that statistic-culled after she had found the courage within to pursue her own investigation, that number staggered her. "Seventy-two other women who were held down, who were objectified, who were completely robbed of their security and sense of self. There was no justice for me, and probably no justice for them, either."

"No justice?" Bruce didn't even have to ask. He knew about the perversion of justice in this city. If anything, Justice had been raped more times than Annabeth.

"That's when I decided I wanted to spend time being a crisis counselor. I understood how little justice we had...no justice…only the justice I could make for myself." Just then, as they stood there, a human island in a sea of sadness and injustice, Annabeth experienced the most satisfying sensation she had felt in a very long time—the genuine thrill of a human connection. "You know about that, don't you, Bruce?"

His heart plummeted in his chest for one moment, and his tongue felt thick and choking as he struggled to speak. "What?" he managed to gasp out.

"Your parents…" Annabeth was confused by his reaction. "If you don't like talking about it, that's fine. Believe me, I understand. But I know you know what it's like to wait for justice that will never come. You just…have to make your peace with it, I guess." She turned away then, breaking away from his hands, still gently gripping her shoulders, and gazed out of the window at the dark sky. Her voice was clear and strong. "I turned to work and studying to cope. I stopped sleeping, because the nightmares were too awful. I couldn't be in a crowded room, I'd start to panic. One really bad night, I tried to kill myself—slashed at my wrists. Janey found me, thank god, and when I was in the hospital, recovering, I began seeing a counselor. It saved my life."

Her back was to Bruce, so she didn't see him as he slowly approached. She knew he was there, however, and when he folded his arms around her and drew her back against his chest, she wasn't startled. They stood there, Annabeth enfolded within his much-taller frame, both of them looking out at the same city, but seeing very different things.

When he spoke, his voice rumbled against her back. "I know how hard this must have been to tell me. But believe me when I say that this…this doesn't change anything." Carefully, he reached for her arms and pushed back the sleeves, revealing her pale wrists and the even paler, incredibly faint scars there. He would not have noticed them, not for a long time, if she hadn't have told him. "You're incredible." He brought her wrist closer and gave it one soft kiss, just one, and then released it.

"In a way, Bruce, I'm damaged goods." She knew he would protest this statement, and hurried on to clarify what she meant. "I mean that I've got issues. Jesus, I still have problems being in a crowd, you've seen that for yourself. It's post-traumatic stress disorder...most of the time, I cope alright. But it still comes out every now and then...I don't even like being physically close to a lot of people—_this," _she indicated their current embrace, "is extremely hard for me. In a way, it's just easier for me to hide, and work, and try to fight my little crusade and stay alone."

"Is that why you freaked out the other night?" Bruce asked. "When I kissed you?"

Annabeth blushed, and then gently disentangled herself from his arms and faced him once more. "I felt so bad—we had both been drinking. And I know from personal experience you shouldn't take advantage of someone when they've been drinking. I guess I thought when you sobered up, you wouldn't be so gung-ho."

The look of disbelief he gave her made her feel extremely foolish, and so did his bark of genuine laughter. "I'm sorry," he gasped, and then laughed harder. "But…haha..you were worried _you_ were taking advantage of _me?"_

Despite the seriousness of the entire evening, Annabeth smiled in spite of herself, and then chuckled a little. And then laughed. And then, her laughter turned into a fit of coughing, and Bruce sobered up as he watched her struggle to catch her breath. "You're still sick, Annabeth. I think I should leave and let you get some rest."

A glance at the clock on the wall revealed that somehow, it had gotten to be ten o'clock. "I think you're right," Annabeth sighed. "I need to get some sleep. This took a lot out of me."

As Annabeth led him to the door, it occurred to him that there was a peace between them, a feeling of cleanliness, almost as if, through Annabeth's story, they had purged all of the ill-will that had passed between them. Bruce knew this was not the case—between the two of them, they had enough issues to manufacture a thousand pounds of grief before they saw each other next. But it was a satisfying sensation, all the same.

"Bruce?"

He looked down at her, and saw that, for once in her life, Annabeth looked less than her normal confident, powerful self. She looked exactly like she was: a tired woman with a headcold gone awry, troubled by something which caused apprehension to dance across her anxious face.

"Would it sound strange if I told you I didn't want you to leave?" She tried to keep her voice casual, which she knew was ridiculous, because this was no casual statement. And yet, nor was it an invitation.

"It wouldn't sound strange at all." Bruce didn't want to leave any more than she wanted him to, but..."Would it sound strange if I told you that I think it's better that I do—even though I don't want to?" He touched the scar by her eye, letting his finger graze across the tiny indentation, and he watched her eyes flutter shut for a moment as she took in the feel of his touch. "Whatever it is that's going on with us...and I don't know what it is, and I bet you don't either...I think we should take it slow."

From where he remained perched on the couch, Jed let out one quiet _woof. _Bruce jerked his shoulder at the dog. "Even your dog agrees with me. I don't want to rush it, and I don't want to screw it up." _And I have to figure out where you fit in with everything else—or even if you do._

With those parting words, he pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway. "I'll call you tomorrow. For now, get some sleep."

Annabeth leaned against the doorframe and gazed out at him. Scarcely did he realize he was doing it before it happened: he impulsively lowered his head and gave her a kiss—his lips firm, warm, and laden with a thousand unsaid words—on her forehead. "You're the bravest person I know, Annabeth."

It would be a long time before Annabeth realized just how much praise those words contained, Bruce knew-if she ever realized at all. For now, he could only honor her as Bruce Wayne, but the Batman inside of him was quietly doing honor to her as well, even though she did not, would not, could not know. Even though tonight had been a night for revealing secrets, there were some things which needed to remain caped in silence.

That night was when he finally understood that he was not completely alone. He was not the only victim, and he was not the only warrior on the streets of Gotham. And he began to see, firsthand, just how irrevocably the criminals of Gotham could damage good people if they were left to their own devices. If ever he had doubted his crusade—and there were many times he did—Annabeth's story served as a reminder: there was still work to be done.

When he fell into an uneasy sleep later that night, it was a sleep filled with silent horror and cruel, mocking voices, leering, sneering faces, and the terrified cries of people that he couldn't help. After that night, Bruce would never see Halloween in the same light again. All of the fear and spooks and ghosts that children and adults alike conjured for fun on that autumn holiday, all of the raucous parties and merriment, all of the horror movies and legends and tales of spirits and scares, all of it paled in comparison to the horror that Annabeth revealed to him. And it made the whole holiday of thrilling merriment seem like an absurd farce, a mockery of the real world and the genuine horrors it hid.


	23. Chapter 23

Headline from the Monday, November 3, 2008 edition of the _Gotham Gazette:_

**MAYOR ANNOUNCES MASSIVE RALLY OF HISTORICAL PROPORTIONS**

_In what many are calling a surprising move motivated by local politics, Mayor Garcia issued an announcement on Sunday morning in which he promised the launching of an "aggressive campaign directed against violence towards women." In his statement, he cites "alarming trends in crime statistics of domestic violence and sexual assault" and warns: "If we do not address these crimes with swift and sure justice, if we do not raise public awareness, then we stand the risk of rearing our city's children in an environment which will provide fertile ground for these horrific and degrading crimes to increase at an exponential rate."_

_One of Garcia's tactics will be to lead Gotham in its first-ever "Take Back the Night" rally directed towards raising awareness of these crimes. Recently, 'Take Back the Night' rallies have become popular in college towns, and have drawn large turn-outs of citizens eager to raise awareness and combat crime against women. The rally is scheduled to take place on several blocks of downtown Gotham City on the day of December 27, 2008. Despite the fact that it is being held during the traditionally-slow week between Christmas and New Year's, a large turn out is anticipated. The Mayor's Office is currently working with the Gotham Chapter of the National Organization of Women, the Gotham City Rape Crisis Center, the Gotham YWCA, as well as numerous other local private organizations dedicated to women's issues._

_Many of Garcia's critics claim he is motivated not by concerns for women's safety, but rather politics: already, his supporters have begun the campaign for his re-election in November of 2009, and critics claim that this is simply the latest plot in a series of moves by Garcia to pander to female voters who voted overwhelmingly for him in the last election._

Excerpt from the Monday, November 3, 2008 edition of the _Gotham Gazette_, Society Column, Section B1:

_**SAME OLD DOG, SAME OLD TRICKS**_

_It appears that Gotham's Golden Boy is up to his typical shenanigans: _Gazette_ correspondents were making the social rounds this weekend when they encountered Bruce Wayne out on the town, enjoying some of the more pleasant sights of the City: namely, the 2008 Miss Gotham University Beauty Pageant. This year, it was held at the Matador Hotel, and while the profiles of the winners are listed elsewhere (refer to the Local Section, D1), there was one profile in particular that Bruce Wayne seemed to study: that of India MacDonald, a 22-year-old GU senior majoring in Business Administration. After the pageant, Wayne was observed at her table, engrossed in conversation with Miss MacDonald as well as Katie Moriarty, wife of GU's president. Nowhere in evidence was Wayne's latest-and apparently, short-lived-paramour, the enigmatic Annabeth de Burgh. This is one dog that doesn't bury one bone before he begins to gnaw on the next._

_Down, boy!_

Excerpt From the Monday, November 3, 2008 edition of the _Gotham Gazette, _Business Section, C1:

_**National Economy Flagging, But Wayne Enterprises Is Keeping Spirits Up**_

_Amidst growing national concerns regarding the U.S. economy's continued downturn, Wayne Enterprises released its 2007-2008 annual report, in which investors and employees may take heart. Among other encouraging numbers, the report indicates a shareholder dividend increase of 17 percent from the previous year, revenues of $ 88.8 billion, and an additional 3,000 jobs added in Gotham City alone. Despite a slight decrease in stock prices during the last month of Wayne Enterprise's FYE 9/30/2008, stocks have regained previous losses and in fact are currently healthy, considering the depressed prices prevalent on the stock exchange at present._

_When asked to comment on his family company's success, Bruce Wayne had only the following to say: "While Wayne Enterprises continues from strength to strength, we continue to suffer from the loss of our former CEO, Lucius Fox. Lucius was an extraordinarily ethical man, as well as a visionary who brought an element of integrity to Wayne Enterprises, integrity which guided us through some of our most difficult moment. It's my firm belief that is with Mr. Fox that we will find our greatest strengths and successes, and my hope that he will one day return to the helm of Wayne Enterprises._

Anyone walking into the little corner cafe that Monday morning might be forgiven for thinking that two strangers were sitting at one booth: all they would have been able to see were two newspapers, held up, each blocking the faces of the other person at the booth. Those who knew the two readers knew that it was simply Annabeth and Janey, sharing a silent, companionable, early-morning breakfast as they took in the news and events of Gotham. The comedic appearance of the two newspapers was the source of much amusement for the more socially-minded regulars, who had long grown accustomed to the two women and their occasionally antisocial habit of ignoring each other.

They had been like that now for forty-five minutes. As soon as Sara had seated them, taken their orders, and brought them their requisite mugs of steaming coffee, each of them had unfurled their edition of the _Gotham Gazette, _snapped it open, and taken refuge behind its pages of dense, inky print.

From behind the depths of her paper floated Janey's voice. "Your boyfriend certainly keeps himself busy."

Without lowering her paper, Annabeth simply retorted, "He's not my boyfriend."

"No," Janey agreed. "Especially if you believe what the _Gazette _is saying on Page B1."

This did provoke a more spirited response from Annabeth, although she still didn't lower her paper. "You're inclined to believe the newspaper that prioritizes the Society section before the local news or business? 'Dear readers, sorry the economy is tanking, more on that later, but right now, let's hear about who Bruce Wayne is banging!'"

"This coming from the woman who actually continues reading the newspaper _as _she insults it." Janey clucked her tongue before she gave up reading and began to pick at the cold, soggy remains of her breakfast.

"It helps to know what the enemy is saying." Annabeth decided she had had enough, too, and threw down the newspaper in disgust. "Although, in this case, the enemy is a tad second-rate, and isn't fit to wrap fish in." She reached for her cup of coffee and frowned at the dregs. Sara, long attuned to her addiction, promptly materialized with another pot. "Anyway, since when do you follow the comings and goings of society playboys?"

"Since one of them seems to be intent on courting my best friend, only to publicly break her heart three days later." Janey's frown was fierce. "Why aren't you as riled up as I am? After what you told him-"

"What I told him, Janey, was not to try to sway things one way or another. I just figured he'd put up with my crap long enough, he deserved to know why I am the way I am."

"That's fine. I understand that. What I don't understand is how it only took you a few hours to explain." Janey's smile was grim. "I didn't think my best friend could sum up her crazy that quickly."

"I gave him an edited version. No sense in going over all the gory details."

"I suppose not. But what I don't understand is how you're handling this so well..." Janey thumped the newspaper, hard, with her forefinger. "According to the newspaper, he's moved on. Right after you told him everything. Why aren't you mad?"

"Who says I'm not?" Annabeth leaned forward, and all pretenses at sangfroid were discarded along with her copy of the _Gazette. _"He called over the weekend, and never mentioned anything about a Little Miss Gotham show...right now I'd kind of like to throttle him, or maybe punch him in the head. Failing all that, I'd at least like to know what the hell is going on."

"So would I." Janey's eyes glinted dangerously. "And...here's our chance."

The bell attached to the front door tinkled merrily as it swung open and Bruce Wayne stepped into the cafe, bringing a puff of cold wind with him as he did. He paused for a moment, scanning the early-morning crowd and taking in Madison Rose, muttering over her coffee, and Sara, who gazed warily at him for a moment, before he caught sight of Annabeth and Janey and began to shuffle, somewhat stiffly, over to their table. He had been out the night before, patrolling the docks, and while it had been an early night, the smugglers he had encountered—seven of them—had put up a hell of a fight. His chest and back were a mass of bruises, and he was beginning to suspect that he had sprained his knee. Nevertheless..."Good morning!" he proclaimed with more cheer than he felt as he approached Annabeth and Janey. Without ceremony, he seated himself next to Annabeth in the booth and gave them a winning grin.

Annabeth managed a feeble smile; Janey simply glared at him with venom practically dripping from his eyes.

"Bruce...this is my friend, Janey Lightoller. Janey, this is Bruce." She kept her voice light, and tried not to acknowledge the fact that Janey was glaring daggers at Bruce. She aimed a kick at Janey underneath the table, and her friend gave a start and redirected her glare at Annabeth for a moment before turning her attention to Bruce.

Oblivious to Janey's rapidly-growing enmity, Bruce simply smiled and extended a hand. "Janey...I've heard some wonderful things about you. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Bruce Wayne." Janey took in his sleekly handsome appearance. "Well, well, well. As I live and breathe."

He gamely kept smiling, although he shifted his eyes over to Annabeth for a moment. Annabeth tried to avoid his gaze, and privately reflected upon the awkwardness of the whole situation. Bruce had no idea of the furor about to be unleashed upon him.

"I'm surprised, Mr. Wayne." Janey began to finger her butter knife. "It sounds as though you had a busy weekend. What brings you out here so early on a Monday morning?"

Uneasily, he eyed the knife for a moment. "Annabeth hates Mondays," he said after a moment. "I thought I'd drop by the cafe, see if she was here, see if she wanted to go out this evening as a way to preemptively cheer her up."

"Uh-huh." Janey's ferocious face was a sight to behold. "Were you planning to pencil her in _before _or _after _your date with Little Miss Gotham City?" Her voice began to rise a little, and an older couple at the next booth glanced up from their oatmeal in amused surprise. More from embarrassment than anything else, Annabeth picked up her discarded newspaper and took refuge behind it, although there was no blocking out Janey's voice.

"So you try to put the make on my best friend, only to start gadding about town two days later with a college strumpet? Is that how it works?"

Bruce considered several possible responses before he answered with a badly-executed attempt at levity: "Uuuuh...does anyone actually 'put the make' on each other any more?"

Beside him, Annabeth raised her newspaper a little higher and remained noticeably silent.

"That's your answer?" Janey was practically shouting now. "For crying out loud, you're as stupid as they say!"

"Janey-" Finally, Annabeth spoke up, but it was too late-Janey was on a roll.

"Here you are, you could _score _with one of the best women in Gotham-"

_"Janey-"_

"And you can't keep it in your pants long enough to wait for Annabeth to get her crazy shit together? Did your butler feed you _viagra_in the crib or something? I mean, yeah, she gets her crazy on from time to time, but you'd still be lucky to date her—"

"JANEY!" This time, Annabeth spoke loud enough to interrupt Janey's tirade, loud enough that Sara looked over at them in annoyance, and Madison Rose paused her conversation with her coffee mug long enough to observe the commotion. Annabeth lowered the newspaper enough to peep over the top at Bruce. "Are you alive, over there?"

"No bloodshed," Bruce assured her. "Yet."

"Why do you care all of a sudden, Annabeth?" Janey stared at her in disbelief. "He's a walking, talking man-whore." To Bruce, she demanded, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Down, girl." Annabeth passed her the newspaper. "Apparently we didn't read enough of the newspaper this morning. Interesting piece there, on Page D-1."

Janey followed Annabeth's pointing finger until she saw the article to which she was referring:

_**Gotham University Announces Surprising Curriculum Changes**_

_Students beginning their college classes at Gotham University in the fall of 2009 may find some surprising changes in the curriculum. The President's Office of Gotham University released an announcement early Monday morning which indicated that incoming freshmen females must participate in a series of mandatory self-defense classes, and incoming freshmen males will be required to attend a seminar on sexual awareness and aggression. All students will be presented with updated editions of the seminal book "Against Our Will" by Susan Brown Miller. The classes and seminars, while mandatory, will not be for college credits, nor will students be charged for attendance. The curriculum change is being funded by an endowment from the Wayne Foundation, and in her announcement, Gotham University President Ichabod Moriarty explained that the change is justified given "increases in sexual crimes against females, as well as the generous support of the Wayne Foundation."_

Guiltily, Janey raised her eyes up from the newspaper. "Um...whoops."

Bruce turned to Annabeth. "I wanted to take you to the pageant on Saturday evening, but I figured you were still sick. I had to spend three hours listening to fifteen different girls talk about how they'd make the world a better place...it was _awful. _I think the low point came during the talent competition...who _is _this Christina Aguilera woman, and why does everyone sing her songs?" He shook his head at the memory. "Katie asked about you...I think she thought you should be presenting the case for self-defense classes, but I think I did a pretty good job in your absence."

It had been a hastily-conceived idea, to be sure...after he had left Annabeth's condo that Halloween night, he had returned to the Manor, not trusting himself to suit up and roam the streets of Gotham as the Batman. His mood had been intensely withdrawn and morose—even more than normal—and Alfred had sensed that something was wrong, but tactfully refrained from pressing for answers. All that night, after he went to sleep, he had been tormented by nightmares-not of Annabeth, but of nameless, faceless women in Gotham, experiencing the horrors that Annabeth had described. Many times, in fact, he had awakened in the night, gasping into the darkness, bathed in a cold sweat, his mind still swimming with the tormented, painful images from his dreams. He had awakened the next morning with a new feeling: the feeling of hopelessness. It didn't matter what he did as the Batman-no matter how many crimelords he took out, no matter how many wife-beaters and child-molesters he scared into submission, it wasn't enough. He was addressing the symptoms, not the disease.

Isn't that what Annabeth had been telling him all along? That it wasn't enough to fight crime; that they had to fight its roots as well? Now, it seemed painfully obvious. It seemed like the only thing he could do, other than continuing his nightly battle, was to throw the weight of the Wayne Foundation behind every damned social service he could think of. And of course, the haunting memory of one woman was a clear motivation for the first social service he could think of.

"Katie Moriarty _loved _the idea," he told Annabeth now, pointedly ignoring Janey. "You've clearly had quite an effect on her. She practically fell over herself to accept the proposition. And what she wants, her husband makes happen."

"I'm sure offering to fund the whole damned thing helped lube her up," Janey interjected, and immediately blushed at her crude description. "Sorry."

"Don't mind her," Annabeth told Bruce. "Her mouth is the dominant part of her body." She bestowed upon him an admiring look. "I think what you did was really admirable."

"It was," Bruce agreed fervently. "Do you know how _boring _beauty pageants are?"

Neither Janey or Annabeth were required to respond to this—Madison Rose chose that moment to scurry past their table, shrieking, "Bats! Bats everywhere! Damned rodents!"

"She gets nuttier every time we come here," Janey told Bruce. She was eager to make amends for her earlier tirade, and now tried to engage him in conversation. "You know how she got like that, right?"

"Ate breakfast with you two too many times?" Bruce nudged Annabeth playfully.

"Close." Janey frowned as she watched Madison Rose take off out of the cafe and dart past them on the sidewalk outside. "It's actually really sad. She was a public defender who worked down in the Narrows...and then, you remember that weird-ass shit that happened a little while back? That 'fear toxin' that somehow got into the Narrows? She was there that night, and got hit with a huge dose of it. She used to eat breakfast here, before all that happened, and I guess that was the one thing she really focused on when she lost her mind. That's why she hangs around in this neighborhood now."

Annabeth had heard this story before, and while it did make her sad, she wasn't prepared for the stricken look on Bruce's face.

"It's okay," she assured him. "Madison Rose has a lot of folks looking out for her. Sara and her dad, Joe, make sure she gets enough to eat. And there's a shelter nearby when it gets cold." Even these reassurances did nothing to ease his troubled expression, and as the atmosphere grew increasingly awkward, Annabeth glanced helplessly at Janey. _Do something, _she wordlessly implored. Surely Janey, who had a far more vast repertoire of social skills, could somehow smooth over this bizarre interaction?

Thankfully, Janey stepped up to the plate. "So...Bruce..." she said, and waited until he pulled himself out of his strange reverie. Then, carefully avoiding Annabeth's anxious eye, she blurted out the first thing she could think of. "So...when are you going to make Annabeth an honest woman?"

This succeeded in bringing Bruce around, but it also had the added effect of mortifying Annabeth. As red splotches crept onto Annabeth's cheeks, she rallied and responded with a volley of her own. "This, coming from the girl who's been shacked up with her boyfriend for _how _many years now?"

"Lost count," Janey shrugged. "Incidentally, Jason asked me to marry him _again _the other night." When she saw Bruce's surprised expression, she explained, "It was the third time. But I don't know...anyway, Annabeth, _don't_change the subject."

Bruce recognized an ally when he saw one; apparently, Janey had readily abandoned her opinion of him as the devil incarnate and was willing to champion his cause as Annabeth's long-suffering suitor. "It's hard to make an honest woman out of Annabeth when she won't even go out on an honest date with me." He adopted a look of injured disappointment.

_"Annabeth." _Janey injected an appropriate note of disapproval in her voice. "Did you or did you not tell me that you were going to give this poor man a break?"

"I didn't, actually." Annabeth couldn't believe what she was hearing.

Janey turned to Bruce. "She was on the phone with me just the night before last, berating herself on how mean she is to you."

"She's lying."

"She just feels really horrible, because she likes you _a lot," _Janey whispered this last bit, and then continued on in a normal voice, "But she doesn't know how to show it. She's kind of like a third-grader like that."

"Don't listen to her." Annabeth didn't know how else to warn Bruce away from buying Janey's outrageous statements. "She's deranged."

"In _fact," _Now Janey was relishing this, and embellishing where ever she could, "She simply wouldn't shut up about how cute you are-"

"She's a compulsive liar."

"-and how she finds you...how did you put it, Annabeth? 'Obnoxiously compelling?'"

"_Lies-_oh, wait." Annabeth considered this last statement, and admitted, "Okay, that last part was true. But I said that _ages _ago."

"She's utterly _mad _for you," Janey teased Bruce. "Hasn't shut up about you since she met you." She began to gather up her things. "Alrighty, my work here is done, and it's time for me to get to the hospital. Annabeth, go out with him. Bruce, it was nice to meet you." She got up and leaned over him, her hair sweeping forward and brushing by his cheek as she whispered, "Hurt her and I will _maim _you."

With these parting words, punctuated with a cheerful wave, she headed for the door—leaving Annabeth with the bill and Bruce with plenty to think on.

"Obnoxiously compelling, huh?" His smirk was smug. "How am I compelling?"

"Actually, now I just find you obnoxious." Annabeth smiled to take the sting out of her words. "However, you get points for sheer, dumb determination."

"I'm very stubborn," Bruce agreed, and playfully nudged her shoulder again. "Lucky for you, right?"

Annabeth smiled absently, but didn't respond. In the absence of Janey's more vivacious personality, there was a strained feeling between them; even though she sat less than three inches from him, she was taking pains to avoid looking at him. In fact...

"Budge over," she said. "It's time for me to go, too. Safe Haven isn't going to run itself." Still she would not meet his gaze.

"Not until you look at me." There was an unexpected firmness, a note of command in Bruce's voice that drew her eyes to him. He nodded, once, with satisfaction. "Nothing changed, Annabeth. Things won't get weird."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" she challenged him, but her voice was gentle. "Things might change. They might get weird. They did with my last boyfriend, Robbie, at least for a while." She saw his look of surprise and smiled grimly. "Yes, Bruce, I have had boyfriends. I'm not a complete nun."

"Good to know." He put his arm around the back of the booth seat and turned his torso so that he was facing her. "Things won't get weird. I just wanted to say, thank you for telling me what you did the other night. I really meant what I said-I think you're incredible."

"I'm not, Bruce. At least, no moreso than you." Annabeth had spent some time of her own thinking, since that night. "You've been through your own traumas. And we each handle things in our own ways. I'd say that _you're _the incredible one-you're a lot more well-adjusted than I am. Trying to have a normal life after you go through something horrible...that's the hardest thing to do."

"Appearances can be deceiving." Bruce's well-sculpted features contorted into an enigmatic grimace as he suddenly pulled himself out of the booth. "I've got to go."

"Another beauty pageant?" she teased him gently, but it didn't quite hide the troubled look in her eyes as she regarded him. It had been a while since he had been this mercurial, and it was an aspect to his character that she didn't particularly miss. "Bruce?"

The smile he threw her was a far cry from the normally self-assured grin he seemed to have at his disposal. "I just..." _Need to get away from that look of trust you're giving me. _"I just need to get down to Wayne Towers...I think there's a lot of work for me to do there today." Bruce began to back away from the table. "In fact...I think there's a lot of stuff I need to get done there, this week. I haven't been there a lot, lately."

"Are you blowing me off?" Annabeth was still smiling, but it had gotten a lot more uncertain. "Look, you're not the only busy one. God only knows how much work there's going to be for me when I get back."

With obvious relief, Bruce pounced on this. "Good! So if we get busy and can't see each other this week, we'll both understand?" He didn't wait for her response; just threw her one more travesty of a smile before he, too, took off, leaving a very bemused Annabeth behind.

_And he doesn't think things got weird. I'd hate to see how he defines 'weird.'_

* * *

Bruce strode down the sidewalk, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and that cafe. As he wove through the early-morning crowds already filling the sidewalk, he pondered the disturbing left-turn their conversation had just taken._"You're a lot more well-adjusted than I am." _Annabeth's innocent words taunted him, and brought back to his awareness a piece of knowledge that he had desperately been trying to ignore: Annabeth had revealed something deeply personal, an event which had altered her entire life, and instead of reciprocating, he had only remained quiet, assiduously maintaining the vast and essential web of deception and lies and misinformation and false images that he had been carefully weaving for years. Somehow, Annabeth had gotten caught in that web—no, to be honest, he had trapped her in it—and he had no idea how to get her untangled without tearing the web apart and without hurting her.

_Hypocrite_, a nasty voice hissed inside his head. He _was _a hypocrite. And who was he fooling? Annabeth, of course, and himself. Did he think that somehow, he could carry on a normal relationship with her, without her finding out who he truly was? As it stood right now, she did not know the_ true_ him. Each time he presented himself to her, he was drawing her deeper and deeper into a lie. Telling her was out of the question; completely aside from the fact that she'd feel betrayed and probably skin him alive, it simply put everything-herself, his secrets-in too much danger. He had revealed to Rachel his true self, and not only had she rejected him, but it had resulted in her death. It didn't matter that she had already been at risk—he knew he had played a role in her demise. He couldn't bring that on Annabeth, as well.

Finally getting past Annabeth's defenses had been both a blessing and a curse. She had honored him with her trust, but it had opened his eyes to a sorry fact he had done his damndest to ignore: ultimately, none of this was possible, and it would be just as Annabeth had said-stories didn't always have a happy ending.

* * *

As Bruce was coming to some unhappy conclusions as he made his way to Wayne Towers, Annabeth was coming to conclusions of her own: a week away from Safe Haven was simply too much time away.

"Annabeth!" Maya caught sight of her as soon as she emerged from the elevator, and rushed over to her, her fashionable heels clicking against the linoleum. She looked as pretty as ever, her face radiant with youth and hope and good health; for some odd reason, the unhappiness and horror that regularly flowed through their doors had not yet troubled her. "Welcome back! How are you feeling?"

"Better." Annabeth eyed the stack of file folders and paperwork that Maya clutched in her arms. "Been busy?"

"This just needs to get filed. Donna's over at City Hall, working with Garcia, so she gave me some busy work." Maya shifted her weight and got a better grip on the paperwork, which had begun to slip. "Did you hear the good news about Marjane? She's safe!"

"I did, actually. Bruce told me a couple of nights ago, on Halloween." Annabeth took some of the file folders from Maya, who relinquished them gratefully. Together, they started heading for Maya's desk.

"How'd he find out about Marjane?" Maya frowned. "He hasn't been back to Safe Haven since you got sick."

Annabeth was confused. "_You _told him, Maya. You called him when you found out." They reached Maya's desk and dumped the files there with relief. Every day, it seemed as though there was more paperwork. Even in a private organization, the tentacles of bureaucracy reached deep.

"I didn't call him." Maya looked as mystified as Annabeth. "Why'd I do that? He doesn't even work here, not really." She grinned saucily. "Besides, with you gone, he had no reason to be here."

Ignoring Maya's comment, Annabeth ruminated over the mix-up. "Huh. I wonder how he found out?"

"No idea. Maybe he was in touch with Donna?" Maya had lost interest. "Look, there's a lot to get done. Donna wanted you to work with Zelda Arron; she and her kids just got here last week, and one of the kids has some serious healthy issues. Since they're covered by Zelda's husband's insurance, but trying to hide from him, the insurance company's giving them grief. Donna said you'd worked with the Appeals Department of this insurance company before, so she said, and I quote, 'give them hell and make them cry.'"

Automatically, Annabeth began to slip back into work mode. It was good to be back; this was where she belonged. This was what she knew and understood; this was her identity. As she fell into the soothing of the demanding tasks and duties of Safe Haven, all thoughts of Bruce, and what had developed between them, receded to the furthest corners of her mind.

There was work to be done.

The eighty-fifth floor of Wayne Towers was the gleaming, priceless jewel in the crown of Gotham. It was the headquarters of the headquarters, it was the command post, it was the nerve center of the living, thriving, ever-growing organism that was the Wayne family empire. The main boardroom and the two offices housed on the eighty-fifth floor were all spacious and immaculate, but remarkably almost s_partan _in appearance. For all of its obvious importance and for all its subtle symbolism, it was a very modest floor within the Tower. The only apparent luxury was the view available from wherever one stood or sat; and as soon as one took in this view, the sparseness of the surroundings made perfect sense. It was all about the view. The view was all one needed to impress, intimidate, or intrigue, depending on the nature of the business taking place on the eighty-fifth floor.

When Earle had hired Jessica Waterhouse—having recruited her from her position as assistant to the CEO of a major European automotive manufacturer—Jessica had been awed by it, of course, but not for nothing was she the highest paid executive assistant in Gotham City. Within the first week of working at Wayne Enterprises, she had simply learned to ignore the view. Hers was a difficult position, and precarious, too; she had never been able to shake the suspicion that Earle had brought her on as a token gesture, an attractive piece of evidence to the corporate world that Wayne Enterprises was _committed to progress and_ _equal opportunity..._and yet, she always suspected as though he had been searching for a reason to be rid of her. And so, she took care to arrive to work two hours early, dress in only the best designer suits, and made sure to never, ever get caught gazing out the windows.

Even after Earle's fall and subsequent departure, Jessica stayed on. She had a few moments of anxiety, of course, but any doubts she had harbored quickly put to rest. Not two days after Earle had cleared out his office, Lucius Fox had moved in, bringing with him an air of grandfatherly steadiness, which stood in stark contrast to the flamboyant energies of Bruce Wayne, who had taken up residence in the only other office on the eighty-fifth floor. Where Mr. Fox was quiet and methodical, Mr. Wayne was boisterous and impulsive; where Mr. Fox was measured and thorough, Mr. Wayne was erratic and inconsistent. And it was before these two men, these strange paradoxes, that Jessica had been summoned following Earle's departure.

Her memory of that day was clear and unfading; after all, it was the day that had cemented her future. Mr. Fox had brought her into Mr. Wayne's office and gravely indicated that she was to sit. Nervously, she had done so, and watched as Mr. Fox went to stand by Mr. Wayne and look over the younger man's shoulder at the sheaf of papers he had before him. It was, Jessica had realized, her résumé, cover letter, performance reviews, work history, and references. She had begun to get nervous at that point, but one of Jessica's strengths had always been that she had long ago mastered the art of controlling the appearance she projected towards others. So she simply sat, cool and unruffled, and returned the grave looks the two men had given her.

She had expected Mr. Fox to be the one to speak, but it was Mr. Wayne who surprised her by being the first one to launch the conversation.

"Ms. Waterhouse," he began, and that had been enough, right there, to earn her respect. Earle had called her "Jessica" from the beginning, and she had never appreciated that. In her opinion, you simply didn't call someone by their first name until they asked you to. "Ms. Waterhouse, in light of Mr. Earle's recent departure, we here at Wayne Enterprises have been attempting some restructuring..." Mr. Wayne had trailed off. "Oh, hell, Lucius, you do this. I sound like a pompous ass."

So as Mr. Fox had talked, Mr. Wayne remained silent, every now and then gazing up and around, as though he couldn't quite remember where he was at, or what he was doing there. Every so often he'd glance over and wink at Jessica, which she pointedly ignored, not knowing that this only raised her in his estimation.

"Ms. Waterhouse..." Mr. Fox had concluded, "I see you have your degree from Harvard, and that you actually completed a year at Stanford Law before quitting. Do you care to elaborate?"

In her low, calm voice, Jessica explained simply, "The more immediate rigors of the corporate world appealed to me more." She hadn't elaborated, and they hadn't asked her to.

"With your credentials and experience, I think you can feel assured that you will continue to have a place here at Wayne Enterprises, should you choose to remain." Mr. Fox's smile was both warm and genuine, and again, Jessica had the feeling that he would be just as comfortable reading storybooks to his grandchildren as he would running Wayne Enterprises.

"In fact, if you are amenable, you might find yourself working for someone else, in addition to myself."

And that was how Jessica Waterhouse had gone from a token minority to a critical employee of Wayne Enterprises: she became the executive assistant to both Lucius Fox, CEO, and Bruce Wayne, heir and majority shareholder. In the beginning, working for Mr. Wayne had not been difficult—he was only in occasionally, and the duties he taxed her with were by no means onerous. It was Mr. Fox who had generated the work, who had seen to it that she earned every cent of her very, very generous paycheck. He had been a pleasure to work for, and Mr. Wayne, when actually present, wasn't too unpleasant, either. After her initial interview with him, he had always treated her with an offhand, distant kindness and always called her "Ms. Waterhouse" and remembered her birthday and never became impatient with her on the very rare occasion when she became backed up with her work. Occasionally, he'd try to get a little flirty, but it was almost as though he viewed it as an obligation that he fulfilled once every few months.

After Mr. Fox left...well, things changed. Whereas before the eighty-fifth floor had been a hive of activity and constant, controlled noise-acrimonious board meetings, tense and terse private meetings, phones ringing constantly, couriers darting in and out, boisterous banter coming from Mr. Wayne's office as he chattered away on the phone with one of his golfing buddies, or his latest lady friend, the gentle strains of classical music floating out of Mr. Fox's office. After Mr. Fox left, the eighty-fifth floor became something of a graveyard. A No Man's Land, really. It was only after Mr. Fox's departure that Jessica learned a number of things, each more surprising than the last. Jessica found that, bereft of the kindly and personable CEO, work was now rather lonely. Also surprising-Mr. Wayne began coming in more often, and if anything, Jessica's workload increased, as did her salary. It was only then, as Bruce Wayne single-handedly managed the empire and guided the fractious board, that Jessica Waterhouse realized that beneath that jovial, flirtatious playboy exterior, there was a keen mind filled with charm, ruthlessness, and acumen, particularly in business matters-all in all, a potentially lethal combination. He became more difficult, more demanding, more intense, and more high maintenance, and if he was pleased that none of this fazed Jessica in the slightest, he never let on. He just carried on as though she were doing nothing more than what was expected of her-which is exactly what she was doing.

But Jessica missed Mr. Fox. He had given the eighty-fifth floor a genuine touch, a human touch, and while Jessica may have projected an Ice-Queen exterior, she appreciated a friendly boss as much as the next. Still, hers was one of the best jobs in the city, and she wasn't complaining. It paid well, and it kept her interested, challenged, and very, very busy.

Her current busy day had begun at 5 AM, the same as it did every morning; her early tasks included a quick run on the treadmill, a quick shower, a quick breakfast of juice, fruit, and yogurt, a very deliberate wardrobe consultation (she was possibly the only employee of Wayne Enterprises who dressed better than her boss, and was definitely the only person unafraid to do so), and a leisurely perusal of _The Gotham Gazette. _The other newspapers—the _New York Times, The Daily Planet, _and _The LA Times, _she would read if she had the time. But the _Gazette—_that was essential reading, for any number of reasons. It had all sorts of essential information, not just about the crime rates and the violence that Gotham seemed to feed on, but also business and society. The longer Jessica worked in the corporate world, the more deeply she appreciated just how closely those two were linked, and in culling the social and business columns, she could pass on information that would be useful to Mr. Wayne. And then, every now and then, she came across some news that simply made her day.

Today was one of those days. As she sat at her kitchen counter, perusing the _Gazette, _her eyes landed on a very interesting piece indeed, concerning the thriving business of her employer. Her lips curled upwards into a pleased smile-rare for her, any time before noon-as she took in her boss's interesting statement. Jessica was a smart woman, and she read more between the lines than was actually printed, and she knew Mr. Wayne was trying to send Mr. Fox a message.

With some luck, and perhaps a little diplomacy on her part, hopefully the eighty-fifth floor would once more come alive.

* * *

Wayne Enterprises may have been a corporate monolith, spanning continents and employing thousands of souls, but when it came down to brass tacks, it was really nothing more than a sprawling, sometimes-dysfunctional, wealthy family: prone to forming alliances of convenience, clanny, gossip-loving, and extremely efficient when it came to spreading news. This grapevine never worked better than when conveying the valuable information that Bruce Wayne was making an entrance.

Jessica was never certain of how everyone else in the building learned of his impending arrivals—she suspected some of the employees working the switchboard—when she herself usually only had fifteen minutes' notice, usually delivered by a phone call made by Mr. Wayne's inscrutable family butler. Nevertheless, she would normally have fifteen minutes to prepare, which meant, too, that the rest of the damned company had fifteen minutes to casually inch their way down to the Main Lobby to await his arrival.

This Monday was no different. Around nine-thirty, as Jessica was carefully sorting the mail which had arrived over the weekend, the call came through, and she found herself listening to the slightly amused voice of Alfred Pennyworth, informing her that Mr. Wayne would be arriving shortly. Her reaction was immediate, swift, and decisive, which was precisely why she received the salary she did: she hauled out Mr. Wayne's massive social and professional engagement calendar (he liked to have it open and at his elbow); checked to make sure the latest agenda for the weekly board meeting was on the top of his desk (he slept through most of the meetings, but he liked to know what it was he was sleeping through); ensured that there was a large stock of Perrier water stashed away in the mini-fridge underneath her desk (he didn't know about that; let him think she had to send down to the kitchens for it) and then...then she hauled out her Rolodex. Before Jessica had the time to let herself think of what she was doing, she was looking up a name and a number, and her fingers were dancing across the phone, dialing-she found herself silently praying, _please, please, please pick up._

Apparently, god was listening. After the second ring, a voice blossomed in her ear. "Hello?"

"Mr. Lucius Fox, please," she said, even though she knew she had already found him.

"Speaking."

"Mr. Fox, this is Jessica Waterhouse calling from the office of Mr. Bruce Wayne." She didn't wait for his response. "Mr. Wayne asked me to call and see if you would be available and interested in having lunch with him today..."

Not even fifteen minutes after Alfred Pennyworth had called, Jessica was waiting in the Main Lobby of Wayne Towers, cool and poised and gripping her leather portfolio, and waiting for the instantly-recognizable Rolls-Royce to pull up outside. She observed, although did not acknowledge, the presence of at least two dozen people, employees all, whose presence in the Lobby was not just unnecessary, but downright absurd. That didn't stop them. There were a few upper level executives who perhaps needed to speak to Mr. Wayne legitimately, but rarely had the chance, but there were far more eager, ambitious mid- and lower-level management and associates, all of them eager to get some face-time with Bruce Wayne and brag to their buddies, roommates, colleagues, or romantic partners that they had done so.

When Bruce Wayne's car pulled up and he emerged, Jessica was ready. She was at the head of the crowd of people milling about, but unlike the rest of the crowd, she did not have to look casual or disinterested. She was there for the express purpose of greeting her employer and whisking him away to the enormously demanding day she had managed to schedule for him in less than ten minutes. As the revolving door spat him into the lobby, he skimmed the small crowd and caught sight of his executive assistant, standing at the ready and seemingly oblivious—or indifferent—to the several men glaring at her resentfully. She could be as fierce as a bulldog when it came to running his schedule, and did not take kindly to over-zealous employees monopolizing his time.

"Ms. Waterhouse," he nodded, striding towards her, and Jessica fell into step beside him as they began to make their way over to the bank of elevators. Every now and then he would pause to wave, or smile, or exchange a word with someone—he suspected Jessica was always mildly surprised at just how many employees he knew by name—before resuming their path.

"What did you line up for me in the past two minutes?" he joked lightly as they began waited for the elevator. This was the critical point, when they were a captive audience, and vulnerable to any person persistent enough to attempt to engage him in a lengthy conversation. Being engrossed in conversation with his intimidating assistant was the best way to stave this off.

She glanced at her portfolio, but it was an empty gesture—all of the events and times Jessica had scheduled were locked away in her head, available for instant recall. She was scarily efficient, he thought, and completely immune to his charms. "There's a Board meeting at eleven," she told him, "and don't be surprised if they start pressing you to name Mr. Fox's replacement. And then, interviews for the top candidates for the Head of Finance position, starting at four."

The elevator pinged open, and they stepped inside. No one else was foolhardy enough to follow them in. "There's an awful lot of empty time, there, in the middle," he remarked teasingly. "Have you scheduled a top-secret lunch or something?"

"Mr. Fox called earlier." She glanced at him. "He was interested in scheduling a lunch today. I checked your schedule and saw that it was empty, so...you have a lunch with Mr. Fox at one today."

"Lucius called?" Bruce was amazed, and made no attempt to hide it. "That's...surprising." He glanced at her sharply. "And you said he asked to have lunch with me?"

Jessica looked him squarely, her eyes wide with the appearance of utter honesty. "He was most insistent on it."

"Hmmm." Bruce glanced at Jessica; as always, she was the paragon of discretion. She had never asked about Lucius' abrupt departure, and he knew for a fact she made short work of anyone who tried to pump her for information. "It must have been the article in _The Gazette b_this morning."

"Must have been," she agreed. "It was a rather thinly-veiled appeal for his return. I took the liberty of ordering a lunch from the kitchens; I assumed you would like to dine in the board room." The two men had dined there, many times, before Lucius's departure.

The elevator slid open, and the two of them emerged into the silent, dignified eighty-fifth floor. Jessica returned to her desk, but before Bruce headed into his office, he lingered for a moment. "What time is the board meeting?"

"Eleven. I placed the agenda on your desk."

"And what time is my lunch?"

"One."

"Postpone the board meeting until three." He favored her with an optimistic grin. "Let's get ourselves a CEO and get this place hopping, what do you say?"

A rare smile crossed Jessica's face, "Yes, sir."

She watched as her unpredictable boss ducked into his office, and pondered upon the possibility that perhaps she was not the only person who mourned the lonely place the eighty-fifth floor had become.

* * *

As the one o'clock hour sped closer, an unusual sense of apprehension began to blossom within Jessica, and for one of the few times in her life, she found herself plagued with doubt. Would this harebrained, unprofessional stunt she was attempting to pull pay off? This was the first time she had ever done anything so...sneaky, which was surprising given the environment in which she worked. And no one would have ever suspected her of such tactics. Being discreet and loyal and quiet not only meant that you saw a lot more, but that you were the last one that people would think of when pointing the finger.

Oh, but some people were about to be in for a surprise.

At a quarter till, a small troop of staff came up from the kitchens, bearing trays of the food Jessica had ordered. She watched with an eagle eye as they spread the feast out on the Board room table, and she noted with satisfaction when she ascertained that they had gotten the order correct: salmon and asparagus for Mr. Wayne; an enormous cobb salad for Mr. Fox. It had been with complete deliberateness that she had ordered each of their favorite lunch foods; she would use every weapon in her arsenal to get those two men to be as amenable to each other as possible. If she was going to get fired over this, it wouldn't be due to her lack of attention to detail.

Promptly at one, Lucius Fox stepped out of the elevator and onto the eighty-fifth floor, looking for all the world as though he had only stepped out for a moment, and hadn't been gone for month after silent, lonely month. He spotted her instantly and moved towards her. "Ms. Waterhouse."

"Mr. Fox." She favored him with a rare smile. "It's so good to see you again." She sensed, rather than saw, Mr. Wayne emerge from his office and come to stand by her desk. Mr. Fox ignored him and made small talk with Jessica. "How's your mother?"

"Good. She just came back from a world cruise." Jessica smiled again. "My gift to her."

Only then did Mr. Fox acknowledge the other person in the room. "Mr. Wayne." He smiled warmly enough, and held out his hand. "Good to see you."

"And you, Lucius." Mr. Wayne gestured towards the Board Room. "Shall we?"

Jessica's eyes monitored their progress as they made their way into the Board Room, and only after the door was shut did she let out a sigh of relief. She wasn't out of the woods, not by a long shot, but hopefully they could manage things from here. Hopefully the two men could confront their differences and move past them. And hopefully Jessica would still be employed by the end of the day.

* * *

Bruce glanced out the glass wall at his executive assistant, who was still hard at work despite the fact that it was her lunch hour. "You know," he said slowly, "I didn't even know Jessica had a mother."

"She does." Lucius gave him a pitying look. "Everyone has a mother. You should maybe take the time to get to know your employees better."

"I do!" Bruce protested. "I know her birthday. I know that she...she...is she married?"

"She's been in a committed relationship for eight years. Her partner's a rising star at one of the top civil rights law firms in Gotham and just won a substantial settlement in a class action suit."

"I read about that. Against one of the food processing plants, right, for sex discrimination? But the attorney leading the class action suit was Sandra Sondheim..." Then the penny dropped, and Bruce figured it out. "Ah. Her _partner._ So...I guess I should stop trying to set her up with Ronald Denfield down in Mergers and Acquisitions?"

"That would be advisable," Lucius drawled.

The two men looked at each other from across the boardroom table; between them lay not only the lunch, but a thousand unsaid things-reproaches, questions, apologies, explanations, and the time to address all of it was painfully brief.

Never one to waste time, Lucius took a stab at it. "So why did you invite me to this lunch meeting, Bruce?"

Silence met his question, which he was not prepared for. Nor was he prepared for the look of surprise that Bruce gave him.

"Bruce?" Lucius prompted, disconcerted. "The meeting?"

"Lucius, _you _arranged this lunch." Bruce was deeply confused, but a seed of suspicion was already growing in the back of his mind. He glanced out at Jessica again, but she had disappeared, perhaps fortunately.

"I didn't. Jessica called me this morning and said that you wanted to know if I was available for lunch."

"She told me that you called and asked that same thing."

The two men looked at each other, mutual comprehension dawning. After a moment, Bruce pulled a face. "Still waters run deep."

Lucius craned his neck to peer over at Jessica's empty desk. "Better keep an eye on her. She'll steal the company out from underneath you."

Ever the opportunist, Bruce wasn't about to let pass this unexpected opening that Jessica had so deliberately provided him with. "She wouldn't if you were here."

Lucius took his time in responding. For a good minute, he gazed out at the stunning view of Gotham skyscrapers, no doubt filled with other corporate men and women, intent on their work, not one of them burdened with a decision as crucial as the one he knew he would have to make here this afternoon. 'When I left Wayne Enterprises, Bruce, it was difficult. I'd devoted my life to this company, and to your father's dreams, your family's visions. I didn't want to leave, but I needed to."

Bruce nodded. Of late, he had gotten much better at simply listening and trying to understand people. This was at least one way in which Annabeth had subtly altered the pattern of his very existence.

"When you returned from...where ever it was you had been all those years, I didn't know what to expect. And I certainly never would have imagined..." Lucius glanced around and decided that discretion was still the better part of valor. "I never would have guessed your commitment to the company, and to your other...hobbies." He gave Bruce a hard, meaningful look. "And I never would have guessed that you would have included me in them. And at first, I was pleased. Proud of the man you had become...you've blazed your own trail, which is no more than what your parents would have wanted. You've found a system of beliefs, you've found something that brings you some measure of comfort and purpose. And you included me in that, you gave me another purpose, beyond this company, beyond my job. You presented me with a choice to pursue something bigger than all of us."

"You're making it sound like my...hobby is a religion."

"Maybe I did see it that way. And maybe that's why I reacted the way I did when I realized that I didn't agree with everything you did. I saw you commit what I felt were violations of my moral and ethical code...and I _still _feel like that," Lucius added sharply. "One has to have a set of standards, a code of honor, a sense of what is right and honest, to keep them from falling to the level of that which they abhor. And day by day, I saw you fall closer to that level."

The words hurt Bruce, but the tone in which they were delivered hurt more. Lucius was still disappointed, after all these months, and it was audible in his voice. "I couldn't be a party to that, Bruce. I couldn't stand by and permit it, or enable it, or let you think that in any way, I approved of it. My moral code comes before all else, and I think what you did was wrong. And you know it."

With the exception of Alfred, there was no one whose judgment Bruce wanted-and dreaded-more than Lucius'. And here it was, laid out on the table, his words damning, but no less true for their harshness.

"You're right, Lucius." Bruce held the older man's gaze and did not flinch away from the judgment there. "Sometimes I think you have more courage than I ever had, because you were able to walk away. Sometimes, that take more courage than anything else. But then, sometimes it takes even more courage to come back. The company needs you, Lucius. Gotham needs you. _I need you."_

Just as Bruce did not turn away from Lucius' judgment, Lucius could not turn away from Bruce's need. These were all conclusions that he had already drawn on his owen, over the last few months, but it didn't mean that he would simply roll over. "Bruce, things have to change. I need for you to be open with me on these projects of yours. I need to have input. And you need to have a moral compass of your own. You need to be able to respect some ethical boundaries." He saw that Bruce was about to protest, and continued on before he could. "I understand that not everything is black and white. Very little is, really. But some shades of grey need to be avoided altogether. And if I see you walking down a path where I can't follow, you can be damned sure that this time I won't let you walk down it, either."

Now it was Bruce's turn to take his time in responding. "Am I to understand that you are willing to come back to Wayne Enterprises on the condition that you have the power to restrain me if you don't approve of my tactics?"

Lucius smirked. "_Restrain _is such a powerful word. Let's be honest, Bruce, I _couldn't _restrain you. I simply would walk away again, but I would also feel morally compelled to take actions to stop you."

The implications of his words were serious, ominous, even, but Bruce had to respect Lucius, nonetheless. The man had courage in spades, and Bruce needed him-his scientific genius, his business savvy, his vast and inexhaustible knowledge of Gotham's business world, and above all, his moral compass, his fearless and uncompromising ethics. There were days when Bruce feared that he, himself, no longer had much of those, and worse, he feared that he couldn't afford them.

"Come back to the company, Lucius." Bruce said this quietly, but there was no mistaking the plea in his voice. "I promise to listen to you. I promise to do my best to adhere to your standards..." For a moment, he paused, considering the intense drive, the insane, burning compulsion within him that drove him to such desperate tactics. "I can't promise that I won't do things of which you don't approve-but I can promise not to ask you to do them, too."

Lucius rose from where he sat and began to wander around the Board Room, his footsteps echoing in the silence. At that moment, he noticed Jessica, once more at her desk, hard at work, but from time to time glancing over their way. He had groomed her for this—he had been worried for a while that Bruce Wayne was sinking further into the abyss that he had created, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to follow him there. Jessica—stalwart, trustworthy, scarily smart, and unflappable—could at least manage him at the company, and Alfred, he knew, managed him during the other hours, the other times. But it wasn't enough. Lucius could see that now. He was still needed.

After a moment, he resumed his seat. "What do you need me to do?"

There would be time, later, for them both to strategize Lucius' return to the company. There would be time later to draft the press release, make the various announcements, and give Jessica yet another salary increase. There would be time for all of that later, which is why both men quickly fell to the task at hand.

"I need to know all you know about approximately three hundred Gotham businessmen, investors, and power players," Bruce declared. "Everything you know, everything you've heard. Facts, rumors, gossip, mergers, finances, _whatever."_

"All the facts on the three hundred most powerful men and women in Gotham?" Lucius repeated this with patient humor. "Is that including all of the information that they've take pains to hide?"

"Everything." Bruce repeated this firmly.

"That's all?" Sarcasm crept its way into Lucius's voice.

"For now." Bruce knew that Lucius expected more, some sort of explanation. Already their dynamic had changed. "I've got reason to believe that at least one important Gotham personality-maybe more-are getting involved in an operation that it's in serious violation of basic human rights."

This had been the right thing to say; it appealed to Lucius' innate sense of justice. "Give me a list of the people you want to know about. I'll also do an analysis to see what financial connections Wayne Enterprises has with them. We can't let the company be caught up in any of this, however unintentionally."

Twenty minutes later, Jessica gathered up her courage and took a long, hard look into the Board Room, and was very pleased by what she observed: both Mr. Wayne and Mr. Fox were hard at work on something, occasionally lapsing into intense discussion, and absently picking at the lunch she had ordered for them. For the first time in several hours, the knot of apprehension in her stomach began to uncoil, and she allowed herself a moment of triumph. No matter what happened to her, it appeared as though the eighty-fifth floor was about to come to life once more.

Unbeknownst to Jessica, the conversation in the Board room had taken an unexpected turn into distinctly non-professional territory. With a merry gleam in his eye, Lucius remarked, "You know, I've been keeping up with you in the papers...who's the young lady you've been spending so much time with?"

It had been very deliberately that Bruce had been holding all thoughts of Annabeth at bay, but Lucius' innocent question brought everything back to mind. Bruce winced. "Annabeth."

"That's right. She seems very nice, very..." Lucius frowned, searching for the right word. "Different."

"Mmmmm." Bruce didn't want to discuss Annabeth, not yet, not after his earlier misgivings. But Lucius was oblivious to this.

"Is it serious?"

And there was the question that Bruce had been avoiding, that Annabeth would never think to ask, that Alfred would never dare to ask. Lucius had no such compunctions, however, and he clearly expected an answer.

"I don't know," Bruce mumbled, and the answer was so half-assed, so weak, so _unlike _any aspect of his persona, that for a moment, he looked as surprised as Lucius. He tried to clarify, and in a stronger voice, he explained, "It's complicated. We're both...complicated. I know a lot about her, but she knows next to nothing about me. "

"And you'll put the people you love in danger, and it's better if she didn't know your secret identity, and she'd never understand, and this is a fight you have to do on your own, and really, you don't even know yourself who you really are, and there's just too much to keep you from getting involved." Lucius supplied all of these reasons in a droning, unimpressed voice.

Bruce was doing his best to ignore Lucius, but he was silently pondering, _What on earth have I created?_

Meanwhile, Lucius only rolled his eyes in disgust. "Superheroes." He kept the next thought to himself: So busy saving anyone else, they can't even save themselves.


	24. Chapter 24

In _theory,_ it had been a good idea. A pleasant date at a swanky little jazz club-something quiet, low-key, classy. Non-threatening, yet still sexy. A good dinner, a couple of drinks, the chance to enjoy each other's company, and close enough to Annabeth's condo and the city at large so that after he dropped her off, Bruce could slip into the night and commence other, less frivolous, activities. In theory, it had been a good—a _brilliant—_idea, and Bruce was pleased to have thought it up. Or, more accurately, to have seized upon the idea that Alfred had thought up. In _theory, _it should have worked out without a hitch.

But in practice, it was another matter entirely: in practice, Bruce was attempting to date a battle axe disguised as a woman, and so there were many obstacles before a date with said battle axe could come to pass—the main obstacle being that the battle axe looked as likely to decapitate him as go on a date with him.

"A date? Tonight?" Annabeth peered over at him. She had taken to wearing reading glasses while working, and despite the fact that it made her glare look all the more fierce, Bruce found it disturbingly attractive. "Bruce, it's Wednesday. The middle of the week!"

"A school night," he mocked her. Her dismay was a little daunting, but he shouldn't have been surprised. He was beginning to suspect that with Annabeth, it would always be an uphill battle. "Come on, Annabeth. We're both busy this week, let's grab a chance to go out while we both have some time. And it's a really nice place. Club Atlantis has been around for a really long time. It's one of the nicest jazz clubs in Gotham, and the food is amazing. _And_ I've got a table permanently reserved there."

"Dinner? At a jazz club?" The tone of Annabeth's voice suggested that he had proposed dropping acid at a whorehouse.

"It'll be _fun."_

While she found this doubtful-sitting in a dark room, listening to loud and possibly bad music, watching people dance while dressed in stylishly ugly clothes? fun?-Bruce's persistence and eagerness were endearing, and she smiled reluctantly. "Okay."

"Don't be such a—what?" Bruce looked at her as though she had grown another head-which, apparently she had, one that spoke far more amiably and acquiescently than the original.

"You said you had a permanent table, there, right?" Annabeth thought about this for a moment. "So it won't be some sort of seedy little nightclub where we're crammed in cheek by jowl?"

"Well...maybe a _permanent _table was a bit of an exaggeration. But I'm sure I won't have a problem getting one. " Bruce was half expecting her to do another about-face. "Why'd you change your tune all of a sudden?"

"Oh." Annabeth wrinkled her nose. "For a second, I had forgotten that I wasn't supposed to be mean to you any more. Old habits die hard."

Passing by Annabeth's office, Donna paused and listened to the exchange taking place within. She shook her head and smiled to herself, silently marveling at the way in which Annabeth had somehow brought the Prince of Gotham to the point of wheedling. Countless socialites, actresses, and models at his beck and call, and he had chosen to bark up Annabeth's tree. And somehow, despite his oddball ways, he had succeeded in earning Annabeth's attention, if not yet her undying devotion. Ever since Annabeth had returned from her sick week, Donna had noticed a slight change in her protégé. Nothing pronounced, nothing noticable to anyone but herself and possibly Maya, but nonetheless, she had noted an easing of tension within Annabeth, a certain lilt to her voice that hadn't been there before. And it wasn't taking time off that did it, either. No, Annabeth was maybe, perhaps, just possibly letting herself fall for Bruce Wayne. The funny thing was that, judging by the sound of her voice at the moment, she wasn't quite aware of it. Not yet, anyway.

Some people, when they were hovering at the edge of the cliff, just needed to be bumped right over.

"Annabeth!" Donna made a show of just happening to pass by, and entered the office. "Good morning, and Bruce, _hello." _Her smile was as warm and genuine as ever, and it shamed Annabeth for her less than effusive reception to the man she was allegedly dating. Donna seated herself next to him, and facing Annabeth. "Did I hear you say that you were going to Club Atlantis tonight?" She gently kicked Bruce's ankle.

"Yes." Bruce spoke before Annabeth had a chance to. "In fact, Annabeth was just saying how much she'd like it if she could get out of here a little bit early. You know how she hates to be out late."

"Hmm, that just shows how much you still have to learn about her." Donna gave Bruce a conspiratorial grin. "Annabeth's a workaholic who never sleeps. She's about as lively as roadkill on weeknights. "

"I know. I think I've actually talked to celibate ninjas that were livelier," Bruce chuckled.

_"Ahem."_ Annabeth decided it was time to reign this conversation in.

"I don't know about celibate, but the whole time I've known Annabeth, I've never seen her date anyone." Donna leaned in. "Sometimes I wonder if she maybe likes the ladies..."

"I'm right here!" Annabeth interrupted before her boss and...whatever Bruce was...completely re-wrote her life. "Donna, I am _not _a lesbian, and Bruce, you can wipe that little grin off your face, stop imagining, and both of you, I am _plenty _of fun."

"Oh yes," Donna agreed, her voice claiming anything but agreement. "You've been a barrel of monkeys since you've been back. For the love of god, Bruce, take Annabeth out tonight and get her out of our hair. She's barely left the office since she got better."

Suddenly chagrined, Annabeth hunkered down in her chair, but it wasn't enough to evade the suspicious look that Bruce threw her way. "Is that why you didn't answer your phone when I called last night?" he asked her. "You were here, weren't you?" He had expended a good deal of thought convincing himself to continue pursuing this incredibly odd dynamic with Annabeth, and how typical, as soon as he did, she decided to be the emotional gimp once more. Sometimes, it felt as though they would be perpetually out of sync.

"I'm sorry, Bruce." These words, coming from Annabeth, and very sincere-sounding, were enough to take both him and Donna by surprise. Annabeth glanced at her boss and smiled sheepishly. "Donna, would you give Bruce and me a minute? If I'm about to abase myself, I'd rather there not be any witnesses."

Hiding a triumphant smile and winking at Bruce, Donna gracefully made her departure, closing the door behind her and leaving them in a very loaded silence.

As soon as Donna left, she rose from her seat and made her way over to Bruce. He watched her, warily, silently taking in the subtle—very subtle, as there was very little overtly feminine charm in Annabeth's movements—sway of her hips and listening to the rustle of her suit's fabric as she sat down next to him, in the seat Donna had so recently vacated. Without her cluttered desk serving as a barrier between them, Annabeth looked very vulnerable, and yet also brave for deliberately taking that barrier away.

"Have patience with me, Bruce." She said this softly, almost imploringly, and the small smile she gave him was enough to soften his piqued feelings. "I'm sure you're an old hand at all this, but me? Not so much with the dating. I flunked out of girlfriend school, in case you couldn't tell."

Without knowing it, without meaning to, she always made him feel like a bit of a jerk. He didn't have much of a track record either, but Annabeth, along with about everyone else in Gotham, was still laboring under the deceptions that he had been carefully cultivating since his return. The guilt of these deceptions was what he had been trying to confront for the past two days, and as soon as he successfully laid the guilt to rest, poor oblivious Annabeth, with her sweet smile and her guarded trust, unintentionally resurrected it again.

Damn her.

Of course, damning her was not a particularly productive response to her tiny but heartfelt attempt to connect with him, and so Bruce did the only other thing he could think of quickly and that wouldn't lead to him confessing a secret passion love for Kevlar and hopeless causes. He kissed her. Of course, kissing had its own set of consequences...

None of which he was thinking about at that moment. Her sharp intake of breath told him that this was not expected, but her ready response told him that this was also not unwelcome. The position was awkward-Bruce leaning into her from where he sat-but soon enough, he sensed her shifting her weight, leaning in as well, her lips meeting his with an eagerness and a hunger that spoke volumes more than her more vocal reluctance ever had. He cradled her head between his hands, gently stroking her soft cheeks, and firmly locked her into the kiss as it became more intense, but she wasn't going anywhere. Tentatively, her tongue darted into his mouth, tasting sweet and promising of other, more sensual pleasures—

-and then both of them pulled back, a silent yet mutual decision to draw away from the dangerous flame that flared between them. They regarded each other-both of them breathing heavily, their eyes burning with a thwarted lust-and surprisingly, Annabeth spoke first. "Well. My goodness."

Bruce struggled to regain his composure. "You sure you flunked out of girlfriend school? Seems like the kissing alone would have gotten you a lot of extra credit."

It was a horrible joke, a wretched attempt to beat back the sexual tension in the room, but it was enough for Annabeth, who buried her head in her hands, partially in bashfulness, but after a moment, he heard her suppressed chuckle. After a moment, she lifted her head and looked at Bruce again, and was taken aback by the raw need she saw in his eyes. "Bruce?"

"Sorry." Bruce became aware of the intensity of his gaze, and toned it down some. "You're just...you bewitch me."

It was a powerful thing to say, and Annabeth clearly didn't know how to handle it. She smiled again, but there was hesitancy in it, an instinctive withdrawal. She actually physically withdrew, rising from where she sat and moving towards the door. "How about you take yourself off to wherever you go during the day, and later tonight, you try to reciprocate and bewitch me with this jazz bar?"

She opened the door, and it was a clear invitation for Bruce to leave. But her words, and the sudden look of anticipation on her face, were enough of an invitation for him to come back that evening.

However, not for nothing was Bruce an astute and savvy businessman. He knew when to strike when the iron was hot, when to sell, when to buy, when to press the advantage. As Annabeth stood by the office door, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling from the memory of his kiss, Bruce knew an advantage when he saw it. And so, as he passed her, he paused for one moment and looked down at her. "You're really short, you know that?" he teased her. As he said this, he moved closer so that his height seemed even greater in comparison. There was something elementally sexy about this, when he considered how small she was in comparison, and he wondered if it was something she found as compelling as he did. They were a solid fit of masculine and feminine, one of them all obvious strength and physical advantage, the other a deceptively small package of inner fire and adamantine tenacity.

The look Annabeth gave him was all he needed to know exactly how she felt-her eyes were almost black with a powerful, unspoken passion, and somehow, it conveyed to Bruce exactly what he had been hoping she wanted. This time, the kiss was one of controlled delicacy, and disappointingly brief—the whistles coming from Maya and two of the clients who happened to be nearby saw to that. Reluctantly, he broke away and took a step back. "How about I pick you up at your place at seven?"

She bit her lower lip in an unconscious gesture of bashfulness. "Okay. I'll see you then..."

As Bruce departed, Annabeth stood in her doorway and watched him head down the hall and to the elevator. She rolled her eyes as she saw him pull out his cell phone and say, "Alfred...? I need you to get me seats at Club Atlantis. _Buy _the place if you have to."

* * *

In the end, no major real estate transactions had to take place for Bruce to secure a table at Club Atlantis. According to Alfred, once the owner found out who was wanting the table, she was gratifyingly accommodating in assuring him that _of course, sir, we'd be delighted to have Mr. Wayme here. _No doubt the whole time she was so helpful and friendly, she was also calculating how much milage she could get from broadcasting that Club Atlantis was Bruce Wayne's latest favorite haunt. It was an obnoxious system of symbiosis, and everyone who was anyone in Gotham participated in some way or another, even himself. Nonetheless, he always felt slightly dirty when he perpetuated it.

Nevertheless, it would be worth it—he hoped. With Annabeth, it was always something of a crapshoot, which was possibly one of the reasons that he enjoyed spending time with her. One never knew how the evening would end. Bruce was beginning to suspect that he enjoyed the extra bit of emotional unpredictability that Annabeth had brought into his life, and he was fairly certain Alfred would agree with him.

In fact, despite his awareness of both Bruce and Annabeth's...quirks...Alfred very much approved of the recent developments in their dynamics. He certainly was pleased enough as he navigated the Rolls through the streets of Gotham, taking his employer to Annabeth's home. Alfred tried not to worry too much-in his opinion, worrying wouldn't solve much of anything, and he had gone too long in life to start shaving off any remaining years by shouldering the stress that worrying would inevitably visit upon him. But when he did allow his mind (his very refined, well-trained mind, if he was allowed to say so) to wander down the paths of troubled thoughts, it always landed on Master Bruce. He had devoted his life to the Wayne family, and he knew all too well how Master Bruce relied upon him. How long would he carry on this crusade? For that matter, how long _c__ould _he? Master Bruce was only in his early 30s, so he had at least another ten years, but at some point, encroaching age would begin to slow him down, render him vulnerable. And that was _if _Bruce Wayne were lucky enough to make it to that age. There were a thousand things that could bring everything to a screeching halt, a disgraceful and scandalous end-a particularly dedicated criminal, a malfunctioning piece of equipment, a bullet trajectory at _just _the wrong angle, a very intrepid and nosy reporter-no, these were the things that could keep Alfred awake at night if he allowed them to. Is this what Thomas and Martha would have wanted from their son? Is it what they would have expected from Alfred?

And apart from the physical toll, the risks to Bruce's person and the family name, what of the psychological toll? This crusade had not removed the shadows that had stolen into Master Bruce's soul all those years ago; the shadows had only lengthened, their ominous reach creeping deeper and deeper into him, more often than not dulling the natural life in his eyes and replacing them with an eerie, fanatical fire. He needed more than this strange, twilight world which he had created for himself, and Alfred was beginning to feel that the best way he could serve Master Bruce would be to guide him towards a happier existence.

_Enter Annabeth._

She was a curious girl, no two ways about it. As far removed from the rarified circles in which Bruce Wayne moved as it was possible to be, and yet she was not intimidated by those who considered themselves her betters. She was prickly and defensive and hard to warm up to, according to Bruce, but once one did, they were able to see the inner fire, the strong core of integrity, the courage, the strange ambition, the work ethic, the compassion, the soul blighted by circumstances beyond her control. Perhaps the two of them were each other's salvation.

"What are you smiling at, Alfred?" Bruce leaned forward and peered over at his butler. "I saw you looking at me and smirking in the rearview mirror."

"Nothing to concern yourself with, Master Bruce," Alfred assured him. "You know me, my mind wanders down a hundred dead-end roads."

"You're thinking of Annabeth, aren't you?"

"You're projecting, aren't you?" Alfred had no qualms about giving as good as he got.

"I _am, _actually," Bruce agreed with unusual openness. He settled back into the buttery-soft leather seats and gazed out the window at the streets of the city as they slipped silently past. How odd it was that both he and Annabeth had dedicated their lives to this strange, sometimes frightening city. The darkened streets were illuminated only by an occasional streetlamp, obscuring some of the harsher lines and details of the shabby setting, but at the same time, washing the buildings and various city elements—benches, scraggledy trees, phone booths, a pedestrian here and there—with a melancholy sort of dignity. "She told me everything, Alfred."

Alfred glanced back in the rearview mirror again. Bruce was still looking out the window, deliberately not meeting his gaze. Alfred didn't need to see Bruce's eyes to know that there was confusion there, and pain; confusion that anyone would willingly inflict pain and fear and humiliation onto another person the way someone had done to Annabeth, and empathetic pain for her. Bruce had somehow managed to internalize the pain of everyone in this damned city, it seemed.

_Oh, yes. I'm supposed to say something in response. _"I'm glad that she did, sir. I know you've had difficulty understanding Miss de Burgh from time to time. It helps to know where she's coming from."

Bruce "hmmmed" noncommittally.

"Do you intend to reciprocate, sir?"

"What do you mean?" This time, Bruce did turn his head and meet Alfred's gaze in the mirror. As the older man looked back at him, a shaft of streetlight illuminated part of Bruce's face, casting one half in a sickly yellow light and casting the other half in shadow. Even with only half of his handsome face visible, though, Alfred could still see the remote, detached expression suddenly cast a veil over him—it was how Bruce looked when he wished for no one to see or understand what he was thinking. Suddenly, Alfred could imagine how Bruce could look as an old man: as remote as ever, but horribly lonely, his handsome face etched with bitter lines scored in by decades of self-imposed emotional exile and isolation.

"I mean, sir, do you intend to reciprocate her trust and the confidence she shared with you?" Alfred kept his tone carefully neutral, but there was little point to disguising what he thought. "Do you intend to explain to Miss de Burgh just who you are?"

"Who I am, Alfred?" Bruce sounded amused, but Alfred knew all too well that he was treading on thin ice. As close as they were, as much as their relationship transcended that of father and son, master and butler, there were some lines that were better left uncrossed. But then, there were sometimes that those lines needed to be crossed, regardless. "Just who am I?"

The ready response Alfred gave made Bruce think that the older man had been pondering this for a while. "You're just a person who runs from any close relationships. You get close enough to the fire to feel warm, but as soon as a spark enters your soul, you flee...in case you end up losing them the way you lost your parents and Rachel, and your soul is left colder than ever."

Alfred's forcefully eloquent answer actually surprised Bruce into a temporary silence, but his mind was mulling over what he had said. Was it true? Was he just getting close enough to Annabeth's fire to achieve a temporary warmth, long enough to light his soul once more before slipping back out into the shadows of Gotham?

Suddenly, Alfred pulled the car over to the curb. "We're here, sir."

As quickly as possible, Bruce exited the car to fetch Annabeth, and the speed of his movements suggested to Alfred that Master Wayne was all too eager to leave the uncomfortable atmosphere and let the words be shut away in the car. But just because the words were left behind didn't mean that he wouldn't keep drawing closer to Annabeth's fire. Alfred could only hope that the extraordinary woman could give him some sort of life-sustaining warmth before his own fire burnt out for good.

All day, whenever Annabeth's mind had wandered towards the evening ahead, she had always gone back to the question of what, exactly, Club Atlantis would be like. _A jazz club, _Bruce had told her, but having never been to a jazz club before, she had no idea what to anticipate. She had plenty of eroneous, preconcieved notions, she'd be the first to admit-she had ridiculous ideas about that which she had limited encounters-rich people, for example, and swanky little jazz clubs. She was afraid of the unknown, like most of humanity, and so formed usually misguided ideas about what those unknown things were like.

_A dark room, _she had mocked Bruce. _Loud music. People dressed in stylishly ugly clothes. _Well, she was right on the first part, at least. As Alfred dropped them off in front of a nineteenth-century, red-brick building, Bruce had helped her out of the car (acting surprised when she actually accepted his assisting hand) and led her, his hand placed lightly at the small of her back, to the head of a staircase leading down to a subterranean door. So, this jazz club was in the basement of the building...how frightfully typical. She glanced over her shoulder at Bruce as she carefully made her way down the narrow steps. "Give it a chance," he said, and the look he gave her told her that he sensed her misgivings.

They emerged into the jazz bar, and Bruce watched in amusement as Annabeth slowly swiveled her head this way and that, taking in the surroundings. It was a dark place, yes, but much bigger than one would have assumed. And despite its dark interior, it was a beautiful and sensual place, resembling nothing so much as a Middle Eastern palace. As she took in the muted lights, the richly-colored cushions, and the swag draperies separating each individual table, Annabeth felt slightly overwhelmed. She turned to Bruce, who stood just behind her. "I'm kind of lost as to the central theme. Are you sure this is a jazz bar?"

"Positive," he assured her as the hostess began to lead them to their table. Once more, he placed a guiding hand at the small of her back, and Annabeth became pleasantly aware of the gentle, warm pressure there. "Every few years, the owners re-do the decor. Last time, they went for the theme of a Tuscan villa. I think the next theme they're talking about is a speakeasy. It's kind of their schtick. I think they should go for a petting zoo, personally."

The hostess had stayed quiet up until this point, but as she heard this, she turned around and smiled. "Only if you can provide the emus for us, right, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce smiled gamely but said nothing, and as the hostess seated them and walked away, Annabeth grinned suddenly and began to laugh. "My god, they're never going to let you live that down, are they?"

"The good people of Gotham have a very long memory." Bruce sighed as he said this, but there was a smile quirking at the edge of his lips. "It'll be a good story to tell their grandkids someday."

They fell silent for a moment as Annabeth glanced around, continuing to take in her surroundings, and Bruce watched her as she did. On the stage at the far end of the room, a pianist began playing, accompanied by a tiny little woman on saxophone. Annabeth stared for a moment. "How on earth can such a tiny little thing blow all that out?"

Bruce picked up a leatherbound menu and began to peruse it, but she heard his playful words all the same: "You know, I asked myself the same thing about you, once."

* * *

As the night wore on, Annabeth had to reverse most of her assumptions about Club Atlantis. It was a dark, swanky little place, but at the same time, not too obnoxiously trendy. The other club-goers were not the hip little wealthy divas and stockbrokers she had imagined, but mainly a more mature—and thankfully, better-dresse—crowd. The music wasn't bad at all, either, nor was it overwhelmingly loud.

At one point, Bruce glanced over and saw her smiling a tiny, secret little smile down at her glass of wine. She had ordered it as soon as she sat—Bruce had stuck with sparkling water—and nursed it all evening, almost as more of a social prop than anything. And whether it was the little bit of alcohol in her system, or simply a decision she had made to loosen up, somehow she was more relaxed, more loquacious than he had ever seen her before. And when he looked over and saw how privately pleased she was, his curiosity got the better of him.

"What are you over there, smiling about?" He asked it playfully, but he genuinely wanted to know-this was another side to Annabeth, a side that he could not have imagined emerging. So, perhaps he was not the only one with multiple personalities.

Annabeth shrugged absently played with her wineglass. He watched as her tiny fingers absently stroked the stem. "I just don't do this that often." Her eyes twinkled. "And for the life of me, I can't imagine why I don't."

"You know why you don't." His voice was surprisingly serious, all the more because he had been so good-humored just before.

"You're right, I know why I don't. It's a lot easier to bury yourself in work than it is to go out and meet people and get close to them." Her line of thinking was scarily close to his own. Oblivious to just how much he agreed with her, Annabeth continued on. "After all, getting close to people, it's hard. It takes work. And it feels selfish, especially when I think about all that there is to do. All that I need to do to help Gotham."

"_Just _you?" Bruce sounded disbelieving. "Pretty egotistical, don't you think? You're the only one who helps Gotham?"

Annabeth thought for a moment of Maya and Janey and Donna, and even of people like Elisa and her fiancé, and then she thought, too, of the Batman—as frightening and threatening as he was, he tried to help Gotham too. Hell, he even looked out for her. "I'm not the only one. Other people help, too. _You _help, Bruce."

"Shhh!" Bruce glanced around. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Annabeth actually giggled. "Please. You're a big softy that happens to like women. All of Gotham's got you pegged now as a big old pushover."

"Well. Still." He gestured towards her glass. "You want another?"

"No." Annabeth's voice was firm, and she drew the glass closer to her. "I'm fine, thanks."

"That's why you don't drink a lot, isn't it?" Bruce asked. "Because of what happened?"

She nodded. "I'm a little bit over-cautious about things like that. Getting drunk, even a little, can make a woman—or a man—terribly vulnerable. That's what happened to me."

"Do you think about it a lot?" Again, Bruce's curiosity was getting the better of him. He didn't consciously think of his parents a lot any more, but really, wasn't their murders the thought behind everything he did? Did Annabeth have a similar drive?

Annabeth seemed not to have heard him at first, for she did not respond immediately. She sat very still, gazing over at the musicians on the stage, and he took in her pale profile, eerily lit by the red lamp overhead, her eyes burning with some unknown thought. "I don't think about it all the time. But...it's always there. Somewhere, lurking. I think I told you, I still have panic attacks from time to time. And if I go through something-like a bad case at work, or if someone were to break into my home-that can provoke a lot of memories. A lot of nightmares, even. And even though I don't think about it, the fear's always there. Always there, in the background, at the back of my awareness."

"Fear or caution?" Bruce was finding this an interesting discussion, on a completely intellectual level. It helped keep certain dangerous emotions in check when discussing Annabeth's trauma. "Because, you know, caution is healthy—being cautious about how much you drink around strangers, for example, or being aware as you're walking at night. Fear isn't as healthy."

"Fear, as in freaking out the first time a man kisses me?" Annabeth grimaced at the memory. "It's definitely fear that I've got. But don't feel bad, I freaked out the first time I got close to my last boyfriend, Robbie. It's really nothing personal."

"What was he like?"

"Who, Robbie?" Annabeth threw him an odd look. "This is a strange topic for a date."

"I'm a strange man." Bruce smiled at their waitress as she brought out the food they had ordered-Bruce had opted for the duck, and Annabeth had gone for more traditional chicken fare. "Seriously, what was he like?"

Annabeth shrugged. "A good guy. Understanding. Supportive. Responsible. Steady."

"Completely boring?" Bruce said this innocently, but there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"After a while." Even now, long after they had parted ways, Annabeth remembered him fondly. It was obvious in her soft smile. "He was a really sweet man, a saint. He put up with a lot, but I just got to be too much of a workaholic for him." She shrugged and picked up her fork and began to poke at the winter root vegetables which had been so artistically arranged on her china plate. "Tit for tat, Bruce. Any former ladies I should know about?"

The look of pain that flashed across his face actually sent a quick shock of dismay through Annabeth, and she dropped her fork. "Christ, Bruce. I'm sorry, that was completely stupid of me." She thought of the legendary Rachel, dead many months yet still, somehow, haunting him. She reached over and placed a hand on his cheek, which surprised them both. Annabeth didn't withdraw her hand, though; instead, she gently stroked his cheek, feeling the faintest stubble, rough under her hand. She moved her hand upward and ran it through his hair, brushing it back from his face and feeling it softly wisp through her fingers. "I _am _sorry."

Bruce had closed his eyes, reveling in the unexpected touch of Annabeth's hand, and as she spoke again, his eyes snapped open again, an icy fire burning visibly within, causing her breath to hitch in her chest. "Don't apologize." He said this firmly, quickly, not pausing to consider the words as they spilled out. "Don't. I loved Rachel. And we could have had something, some day, but I wasn't enough for her. She couldn't like me or accept me for who I was. I always fell short. So I mourned for what could have been, and not what was."

A silence fell between them, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. Rather, it was the silence of two people who understood each other. In the background, the sultry jazz music played softly, with a heavy beat that seemed to pulse in time with Annabeth's heart. She poked at her food some more, and then looked at Bruce again. "I'm not her, Bruce. I'm not Rachel."

For so many reasons, he hoped not. But as he watched her watch him, Bruce couldn't help but to hope that she'd be so much more.

_Oh, hell._

Their food disappeared quickly—Bruce hadn't been lying, it _was _incredibly good food. Absently, Annabeth wondered what other gems Gotham had been hiding all this time, and vocalized as much to Bruce.

"Gotham's not hiding anything," he told her. "You haven't been looking. A pity. Even crusaders have to eat."

"Very true." Annabeth ducked her head. "Maybe I should get out more. I think I've been cheating myself out of a lot."

Bruce actually gaped at her, his face a mask of incredulity. "Who _are _you? Did Donna hire a doppelgänger? Is the real Annabeth bundled into some broom closet at Safe Haven?"

"No." There was a dessert menu on the table, and casually, Annabeth reached for it, more to avoid Bruce's gaze than anything else. "What can I say? You push my boundaries, Bruce."

"Is that a good thing?" Bruce was surprised by her admission, but still, he seized the unexpected advantage. "Pushing your boundaries? I'm not pushing too hard, am I?"

At this point, such a considerate question coming from him did not surprise Annabeth at all. "It _can _be a good thing. Maybe I was ready to be pushed. I just...I..." She held up her hands. "I don't know, Bruce. I've just bumbled along for a long time, now, trying to live a quiet life, trying to do all I can to not _live. _Somehow, I guess I think lifeis for others. Me? I just _exist. _I exist to help others, to help _them _live. I feel like I'm just a passive tool of fate."

Oh, he knew all about that. And he wasn't about to lecture her on choices like that, when hadn't he made a similar, if unconscious, decision at some point, too?

"But now? I just don't know any more." Annabeth stopped fidgeting with the menu. "My foster mother—the last one I had—she once said that sometimes, we're just here to change others. And sometimes, others are here to change us. And while we're not here, forever, for each other, with each other, sometimes we're the better for knowing each other."

"Your foster mother sounds like she was a wise woman."

"She was." Annabeth's face brightened at the memory of her. "But enough about me, Bruce. What about you?"

_Damn, damn, double damn. _"What about me?" Bruce asked, and he hoped his voice was as casual and friendly as ever, and did not betray the sudden surge of apprehension and tension he felt within him.

Annabeth didn't seem to notice his evasiveness. "Who are you? Sometimes I feel like I only know what the rest of the public knows about Bruce Wayne from the tabloid stories. And _those _are about as true as Lex Luthor's income tax statement. So—what about you?"

"There's nothing to know. What you see is what you get." At that moment, Bruce was fairly certain he had reserved for himself a presidential suite in hell.

"Don't be silly. There's plenty to tell. You're _Bruce Wayne. _I bet you've done lots of fascinating things, seen everything in the world." Annabeth leaned forward, her eyes glowing. "Come on, 'fess up. What were you doing all those years you were supposed to be dead?"

"Ahhhh..." Bruce stalled for time for a moment, struggling to articulate a halfway sensible response. Honesty was out of the question...or was it? "Would you believe me if I told you that I traveled the world learning many battle techniques and studying many philosophies as a way to discover the nature of life and death and good and evil?"

In the silence that followed, Bruce could practically hear the wheels spinning in Annabeth's head as she pondered his words. After a moment, she grinned-an unexpected response. "So...you got your ass kicked by some sumo wrestlers and smoked a lot of hashish with some meditation masters in some obscure Third World country?"

_So much for the truth setting you free. _Of course, Bruce hadn't expected her to take him seriously. "No," he chuckled. "No hashish."_Just some psychotropic blue flowers. _"Seriously, I did travel a lot. All over the world. I saw everything-all of the cathedrals and castles and churches and hovels and slums. The richest and the poorest people you could possibly imagine, and everything in between. The most beautiful things, and the ugliest too."

There was a candle on their table, a small little candle intended more for the ambiance its beaded red holder gave than for the light it emitted. There was enough of a golden flame, however, to cast Annabeth's face in a soft glow as she leaned forward to catch his words. At that moment, there was only him and her and the words they spoke, and that tiny, bright candle which somehow cast their table and their words in a comforting blanket of intimacy. At that moment, the rest of Gotham became nothing more than a tiny reality, shoved to the back of their minds. Time and reality were suspended.

"Why did everyone think you were dead?" Annabeth was looking at him steadily, her eyes never leaving his face. She genuinely wanted to know, unlike so many of the people he had encountered since his return. To them, he was a novelty, a celebrity, a diversion. To Annabeth, he was a person. Just Bruce, whoever he was.

It was a very good question, and one that he had asked himself many times, without ever coming up with a truly adequate answer. But-"I wanted them to think that," he admitted. "I guess I went through...an identity crisis? I didn't want anyone to know who I was, or what I was supposed to be, or where I was supposed to go, until _I _knew."

Annabeth nodded. "I know what you mean. I wish I could do that from time to time...just...disappear until I figure things out. Who I _really _want to be, what the next incarnation of Annabeth de Burgh should be."

"You don't like the current Annabeth?" Bruce was teasing, but he could tell this was something she had thought about.

"She has room for improvement." Annabeth's smile was self-deprecating. "She certainly has a long way to go before she gets to the point where she doesn't try to emotionally maul every new man she comes into contact with."

"And doesn't talk about herself in the third person as a self-defense mechanism?"

She inclined her head in graceful agreement.

Just then, a waiter—not theirs—passed by their table, and on impulse, Bruce beckoned him over. "One of everything on the dessert menu," he told the amused man, and as he turned back to Annabeth, he saw her look of surprise. "Girls like sweet stuff, right? I thought it'd be a good way to ensure a next date. Leave a good impression...you know."

"You're a _very _odd person, you know that?" Annabeth's eyes lit up with an unexpected idea. "I've got a way that you can leave a good impression."

"What's that?"

The smile she gave him was alarmingly seductive-at least for Annabeth. "Dance with me." She almost laughed at him as she took in the utterly shocked look on his face. Bruce actually drew back for a moment and looked at her with suspicion, but the male instinct in him won out, and he slid out of his seat and extended his hand to her. As they made their way to the tiny dance floor, Bruce leaned in and murmured, his warm breath tickling softly in her ear, "You're quite an easy woman to please."

"Only sometimes." They reached the dance floor and turned to face each other, and both were secretly surprised at how smoothly each seemed to flow into the other. Annabeth placed a hand in his and forced herself to relax as he brought his other hand to rest, gently, on her waist-after all, she had made the decision to push some boundaries and challenge herself, and she was coming to realize that Bruce was a good choice for a person to do this with. He was smiling down at her now, seemingly pleased with this new side to her-this side that she barely remembered, the side she had quelled years and years ago-and she couldn't help but to drink in his smoothly handsome face, still surprisingly youthful and unlined and somehow, strangely innocent-looking because of it. After a moment, she lowered her eyes from his face and leaned into him, resting her head on his chest, feeling the expensive linen of his shirt rub against her cheek, feeling his body heat, comforting and alive, through the material. Again, male instinct seemed to dictate his motions, and without thinking, he brought his arms up and around her, holding her close.

She didn't try to break away. If anything, she leaned into him even more, and it was an intoxicating feeling, one that Bruce had not encountered recently, perhaps ever. It was difficult to remember that they were not the only people present, because strangely, it felt, once more, as though no one else existed.

Their "dance" was actually more of a gently swaying in time with the sultry music which filled the club; the rhythm of it seemed to beat through both of their bodies at once. As he continued to keep tiny Annabeth folded into his much-taller frame, Bruce began to see how music could be a tool of seduction, a way to drive passion forward; it _did _seem to work its way into the system and attune itself with the hormones, the blood, the nerves. It was almost as if the music invaded, molding itself to the body it entered. _Sneaky music. _He wasn't complaining, though. So much of his life was spent perfecting his body and mind, driving both on to new heights of ability and skill, that it was incredibly soothing, and intoxicating, to simply exist in the moment, to simply _be, _to let his body ebb and flow and attune itself to another's in an age-old ritual of courtship and mating.

Suddenly he became aware that Annabeth was looking back up again, tilting her head back to get a good view of him. Her white neck gleamed in the low lighting, and he took in its graceful sweep of it for a moment before he gave in to his baser instincts and brought his head down so that he could kiss the sweet, soft area where her neck met her collarbone. Her skin smelled incredible-not that he could identify any of the myriad scents that populated a women's perfume counter-and only served to further beguile him. He kissed and nuzzled sofly, content to have even this tiny little taste of her.

Annabeth actually moaned, so softly he wouldn't have heard it if he weren't already so close to her. But he did hear it, and that low voice served only to pull his kiss upward, up her neck and to her jaw, and then, a moment later, his lips found hers, soft and willing. It was a kiss of restrained desire, but he could practically taste her eagerness, and it was Annabeth who became the aggressor after a moment, kissing him more deeply, pressing into him, seeming to drink him in, seeming to swallow his passion while at the same time share her own. The desire in that kiss was mutual, and the pleasure equally so.

He pulled away, first, and came to his senses, realizing they were still standing on the dance floor, and most likely the spectacle of several amused, or possibly scandalized, dinner parties.

"Oh, my," he heard Annabeth say softly.

"I'm sure they've seen worse." Bruce slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. "How about we head back to the table? We can continue this...er, _conversation..._there."

Once more, he saw the bashfulness steal back over Annabeth, and she ducked her head shyly as they headed back to their table. Annabeth was a brave soul, but there was only so far she could push herself in one evening, and as they sat back down at the table, he watched as some of the old reserve slipped its way back into her attitude. She sat there, carefully looking at anything but him. It was frustrating, but at the same time, endearing.

"You're vibrating."

"Sorry?" Bruce looked at her in confusion.

Annabeth picked up the blazer he had worn in, and had shed earlier in the evening. "I think your phone's going off. Want me to get it?"

"No." Bruce's voice was firm, almost unfriendly, and she gave him a startled look as she passed him the blazer. As he dug the phone out of the pocket, Annabeth watched in bemusement as he underwent a fascinating alteration. His faced darkened and hardened into a frighteningly cold expression as he looked at the display, and a strange tension seemed to descend upon him. He looked at Annabeth, and the cold expression went straight up to his eyes. "Excuse me. I have to take this call."

And just like that, he shot out of their booth and hurried away.

It was only a minute or two later before Bruce returned, and he seemed a little bit more restored to his former self. "I'm so sorry. I had to take that call."

"Everything alright?" Annabeth looked at him, and the openness of her face somehow widened the gulf that had began to form the moment he had seen who it was that was calling.

"Actually, it's not." Bruce was digging his wallet out of his pocket and pulling out cash, placing it on the table. "Something came up, and I've got to go."

"An emergency? Is there anything I can help with?"

Christ, every word she said just made him feel worse. He offered her what he hoped was his warmest smile. "No...it's pretty confidential stuff. I feel really bad." He_ did _feel badly, but he'd feel worse if he didn't leave immediately. Time was of the essence.

"Go." Annabeth said this firmly, and with an amazing understanding. "I know how important work is. Go, I'll be fine."

He was already backing up. "There's more than enough money there to pay for the meal. Annabeth...I _am _sorry."

"It's fine." Truly, it was, he could see that. She was bewildered but accepting.

"Don't walk home or anything. At this time of night, it's not safe. I'm sending Alfred around with the car, he'll take you home." And then Bruce was gone, quickly hurrying up the stairs and out of the building. The phone call had come through on his encrypted phone-it was Gordon, calling for the Batman, with the news of a possible break in the case. A violent murder, a witness, a suspect on the loose, and finally, the chance to catch him. There wasn't a second to waste.

If anyone had closely observed Bruce Wayne as he vacated Club Atlantis and headed for his closest lair-he and Alfred had been plotting them throughout the city for the past year-they wouldn't have realized it, but they would have been witnessing Bruce as he began the mental shift into the Batman. Bruce Wayne was left behind with his befuddled date, and the Batman was already in place, even if he did not yet don the suit to match the personality.

Back at Club Atlantis, Annabeth remained sitting in the booth Bruce had so recently abandoned, and if she were another woman, a more insecure woman, or simply a _normal _woman, she would have been annoyed, put out, and possibly angry. But because she was Annabeth, she was simply surprised, and perhaps mildly impressed. Who'd have thought Bruce Wayne was so dedicated to his company?

A waiter approached their booth, bearing a tray laden with a half-dozen desserts of oozing, sugary, heavenly decadence, and looked at her in poorly-disguised surprise. "All for you, madam?"


	25. Chapter 25

Even if the Batman hadn't possessed a thorough and intimate knowledge of Gotham's labyrinthine neighborhoods, and alleys—if he were of a more loquacious disposition, he would have made a superior taxi driver—he would have had no difficulty in finding the crime scene to which Commissioner Gordon had summoned him. It was situated in the heart of Wharfside, the worse possible part of the Narrows, the black heart of a rotting beast, and the crime scene was visible from almost half a mile away. The distracting, strobing flashes of a dozen emergency vehicles' lights served as an ominous beacon, pulling him to the location, almost as though they shared a magnetic draw.

It was not very often that such an army of police cars and ambulances visited this part of the Narrows. No matter how hard Commissioner Gordon worked to clean up his notoriously useless police force, some things would not change, and one of them was the tacitly-understood, but rarely voiced, popular opinion that some parts of Gotham were best left to themselves, to govern or descend into violent, depraved anarchy as those residing and working within saw fit. And _this _part of the Narrows was one of those places: at low tide, the stink of dead fish was profoundly, powerfully, staggeringly vomit-inducing. Nevertheless, the Wharf still did a respectable business among smaller merchants searching for good deals on suspect seafood. Property values in this dismal and ramshackle neighborhood had never been high, but when the Depression had hit, and the homeless had gravitated toward this area, the prices plummeted. For years, petty gangs had been engaged in an unabated turf war that bloodied the sidewalks, and the majority of those who lived there were either undocumented, extremely indigent, or otherwise marginalized, and thus, the police left the inhabitants of Wharfside to their own bleak and often bloody devices.

Not on this evening. The presence of so many emergency vehicles alone was a strong indication that something extraordinary was in the process of unfolding, and as the Batman stealthily made his way toward the commotion, he felt a premonitory tingle invade his senses. Perhaps it was from the years he had spent developing the almost supernatural ability to sense when something important or suspect was afoot, or perhaps it was simply solid intuition, or perhaps the two were the same, but whatever it was, the Batman could tell that things were about to change.

Despite their reluctance to work this part of the Narrows, on this particular evening the police managed to overcome their reservations and had done a remarkably thorough job of treating it as though it were a crime scene like any other. The bright yellow tape had been thrown up, cordoning off the crime scene and rendering it both bewitching and repelling—almost like a scarlet letter of law enforcement—and the various emergency workers appeared to be engrossed in their various tasks of collecting evidence, shooing away morbidly curious onlookers, and generally attempting to appear as though they were putting the City's tax dollars to good use.

All of this, the Batman stoically observed from the rooftops overhead. Not only was he attempting to get the lay of the land and learn what had transpired to warrant such a heavy police presence, he was also scanning the crowds of law-enforcement officials to locate the one person he knew would be expecting, and in fact hoping, for his arrival. After a moment, he spotted Commissioner Gordon, standing off to one side and overseeing the proceedings. Beside him stood Detective Montoya, as stalwart as ever; even from this distance, the Batman could discern the tense set to her shoulders, the ready stance of a seasoned fighter. Montoya sensed danger, and was prepared for whatever dared emerge from the shadows.

Judging by all of the controlled chaos in the area, somethingalready _had _emerged from the shadows at some point that evening. Gordon had been cryptic on the phone, only mentioning another murder, a witness, a possible break in the case, and he had been left to imagine the possibilities as he made his way from one end of the city to another—and from one corner of his personality to another. And now that the Batman had arrived at this corner of darkest Gotham, he found himself intensely curious to know what had transpired. He began to descend from the rooftop, lowering himself silently, with infinite care, holding the grappling line steady as he inched his way down the façade of an abandoned warehouse still half a block away.

Once on the ground, it took him little time to make his way to the crime scene and take in the current activity. Even as he squatted, perched on the shadowy steps of a rickety and probably condemned fire escape, the crime scene techs were beginning to comb the area, searching for anything, any object however innocuous, that might be evidence. Some of the police were already fanning out, starting the investigation and questioning of the few curious or meddlesome onlookers. On the very rare occasions when the Gotham City Police made their way into Wharfside, people had a way of scattering like frightened mice before a menacing feline which constantly was inclined to sporadically plague their movements. There was no love lost for the police out here—if the police ever came out this way, it was rarely to protect and to serve.

Tonight would be the only time in recent history that things went down a little differently.

Shifting his center of gravity and carefully balancing his weight evenly on both legs, the Batman hunkered down a little lower, allowing more of the dark gloom to wash over him, to obscure him, to provide him with a little more cover as he took everything in. After a moment, his vigilant eyes finally caught sight of the cause of all the activity—a crumpled body on the sidewalk. Even in the dim light cast by the long-neglected single streetlamp, he could see the dark stains around the body, and deduced that this was not a person who had expired cleanly without a struggle. However, from his current vantage point, it was impossible to tell the gender. The disturbing thought occurred to him that it was possible this would not alter upon further inspection.

Over the crackle, static, feedback, and voices of various and mergency radios and walky-talkies, over the low voices of the dozen men and women who had by now begun to attend to the scene, he could also hear a continuous moaning. It was deep and guttural, the almost animalistic noise of a person who had been deeply damaged by something. However, with the crowd of emergency personnel beginning to swarm, it was difficult for the Batman to determine its source.

_What the hell was going on?_ A sense of urgency was beginning to steal into the Batman; something about this scene felt different than the others to which he had been summoned. He needed to find a way to get the Commissioner's attention, or else he'd be stuck here all night watching the duller points of police procedure unfolding. If he wanted to do that, he would have stayed home and watched one of Alfred's DVDs of that wretchedly inaccurate _CSI _show.

Perhaps the months Gordon had spent working with his counterpart of shadows had begun to forge a mental bond, for just as the Batman was beginning to feel the urge to spring into _some _sort of action, the Commissioner glanced up from his intense conversation with Detective Montoya. He took a moment to gaze around the perimeter and monitor the proceedings, but after ascertaining that no one was screwing up, he focused outward, toward the less immediate surroundings. At that moment, his sharp gaze locked with that of the Batman, and he nodded once, almost imperceptibly, but it was still enough to catch the attention of Detective Montoya. She followed the direction of Gordon's gaze and narrowed her eyes, already suspecting the source of her boss's distraction, even if she couldn't see it. She said something to Gordon, who nodded, and then she turned back toward the crowd, barking orders and providing the distraction Gordon needed to slip away. The men and women working the scene were too busy trying to listen to Montoya while simultaneously executing out their jobs to notice the Commissioner silently retreating.

As Gordon approached the Batman, he squared his shoulders and tried to arrange his weathered face into an expression of careful neutrality, but he knew it was a pointless gesture—the Dark Knight was sometimes uncanny in his ability to read people, and Gordon suspected that this night would be one of the times where he was utterly transparent. The truth was, he didn't want to be here at all; earlier in the evening, he had checked his wife into the Rehab Center that Annabeth de Burgh had recommended, and it hadn't been a pleasant experience. He doubted his wife would ever forgive him, and his two youngest children were deeply upset. He had been at home, recovering, with them and his eldest daughter Barbara, recently arrived to town to help, when the phone call came about the latest murder. He had immediately headed down to the Narrows, but while one part of him was completely present and aware, his heart and mind were elsewhere, pondering a broken family on the verge of falling apart completely. No, he didn't want to be here, not at all, and not for the first time, he silently cursed the city that seemed intent on destroying everything he loved.

The Batman awaited him, utterly still, unaware of Gordon's inner turmoil; the only thing to do was simply launch into the business at hand. "Around ten-forty-five, dispatch got an emergency phone call placed from a cell phone in this area. The caller was pretty scared and had a hard time describing where she was at, and by the time the police got down here-" Gordon paused and gave him a knowing look of deep unhappiness, which was reflected in the unnervingly watchful eyes of the Batman. Both of them knew how long response time could be in this part of Gotham—"the woman was dead." He gestured towards the body, which was now being loaded onto a stretcher for transport to the city morgue. "In the recording, she said someone was chasing them, that someone was going to kill them."

The Batman spoke for the first time. "'Them?'" he repeated. There was curiosity in his voice, and a restrained anxiety, but he sounded as frightening as ever.

"There's a witness." Gordon turned from the Batman and looked back at the crime scene, and while it was a relief to avert his eyes from his companion, who blended into the darkness in so many ways, it was mainly to make sure the crew was conducting an above-board investigation. He had brought out the most honest and circumspect men and women he knew, but the unhappy truth was that in Gotham, one could never be sure who had sold their soul, or their granny's, to go on the take. "Someone was with the woman. She's over by the ambulance right now."

As if cued by Gordon's words, the moaning that the Batman had heard previously rose in volume again. "That's her," Gordon affirmed, gesturing over to the ambulance. "She's fine, physically, but they're treating her for shock. We have to wait for her to calm down."

"If she witnessed it, she can give us a description of the killer." The Batman frowned. "It'll put her in danger, though." His voice pitched down into his trademark growl. "The last few witnesses didn't exactly have the chance to share their stories. We need to keep this girl alive."

"'_Girl' _is right. She doesn't look like she's a day over sixteen." Gordon remembered her pale, shocked face, her enormous eyes that had looked at him so uncomprehendingly when he had tried to question her. "God only knows how she came to be out this way. Definitely homeless…I think the victim had probably taken her under her wing to learn the trade. I hate to think how she ended up like that."

"When women end up like that, it just shows society's failing them." The Batman paused, then added, "_We're _failing them. That's how they end up like that."

If Gordon was surprised by these uncharacteristic words coming forth from one of the most frightening, burly men he had ever encountered, he didn't acknowledge it. In fact, he was inclined to agree with the Batman. He thought of his own daughters, safe at home-little Hannah with her quiet, contemplative nature, older Barbara, spirited, smart, and mischievous. The thought of them out here, exposed to all sorts of dangers, both natural and unnatural, turned his stomach. And these women that had fallen into the Arrows' power, they were someone's daughters too. Did someone wonder where they were? Did anyone care? His eyes traveled back to the crumpled, bloody form on the ground, and it occurred to him that that was the most tragic thing about it all—that there was possibly, even likely, no one to mourn her death.

The two men looked at each other, and there was no need to say anything; Gordon knew, he just _knew, _that the Batman's mind had come to rest on a very similar thought. The man's mouth was set into a grim line and there was a look in his ice-cold eyes, a look not quite of sadness, but of at least an honest empathy for the nuanced problems that usually led to such misery in the first place.

"Commissioner?"

Both men turned towards Detective Montoya, who stood a little ways off and awaited her supervisor. "The EMT says that the girl's calmed down. She's ready to talk, and MCU sent down a sketch artist. Maybe we can get a good description of the perp." She directed her gaze towards the Batman for a moment, her black eyes burning with some unknown emotion, but whether it was intense disapproval or equally intense curiosity, the Batman could not tell. Either way, the tough woman made no comment on the company her supervisor kept. After a moment, the Batman nodded once to her, one fighter to another, an acknowledgment of her presence and discretion. Still, he did not drop his guard.

"You trust her?" he asked Gordon, not bothering to lower his voice. Before Gordon could answer, Montoya dove in, figurative claws protracted.

"I could ask Gordon the same thing about you!" she snapped. "After all, _you're _the one wanted for the murders of several cops."

"Yet you're not raising the alarm." The Batman was slightly intrigued by this foot soldier of Gordon's. "Don't you think you should bring in the SWAT team?"

Montoya looked at him disdainfully. "I'm not calling in the SWATs because you're no murderer. You're a pain in my ass, and you're bat-shit crazy, but you're no murderer." She glared up at him, not at all cowed by his towering height. "Don't look so surprised. Ramirez is kicking up her heels in prison, and the woman's got nothing to do but talk. She's getting twitchy. I give it a few weeks before all Gotham figures out you're the good guy after all, and they'll be giving you the keys to the city." After thinking about that for a moment, she added thoughtfully, "Although I still think they'd be better off changing the locks."

"That'll do, Detective." Gordon managed to maintain an air of solemnity, but there was a smile that was tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched his mentee go toe-to-toe with the Batman. "Let's interview this witness and figure out what we're going to do with her. You plan on sticking around?" he asked the Batman, who jerked his head in assent.

"The ambulance is close to the building over there," he replied, his mind already plotting his next movements. "I think I can listen over there without being noticed." He stepped away from Gordon, and right before Montoya's eyes, he blended into the darkness and disappeared.

She glanced at her boss, who shrugged. "Shrug all you want, Commish. That's creepy."

Gordon smiled grimly. "That's exactly the point."

The young girl sat at at the foot of the ambulance, huddled in its lee as a frightened bird would take refuge against a tree during a violent storm. Gordon had been correct—the girl couldn't have been more than sixteen, and possibly a lot younger. Even in the poorly-lit street, even with the weird emergency lights flashing their blue, red, and yellow glows at various intervals, it was easy to see that she was sickly-pale, any remaining health washed out of her face by whatever horrors she had seen and experienced. From where the Batman hovered, not six feet away, he could see that she was still deeply upset. An EMT had thrown a blanket around her shoulders, and she clutched it to her, desperate for any comfort she could get. Tears were still streaming down her face, causing her cheap mascara to run and giving her a truly frightening look. Even as Gordon and Montoya approached her, she began moaning again—however, there was something more mechanical and calculated in her lamentations this time, and the Batman suspected it was as much to earn the sympathy votes as it was from shock. He had no way of even beginning to guess how long she had been on the streets, but no doubt she had quickly learned to acquire the skills and wits necessary to survive whatever came her way—which included encounters with the notoriously unhelpful Gotham PD.

"Hey there," Gordon said, squatting down and trying to offer her a kind smile. "I'm Jim. And this is Detective Montoya." He gestured towards Montoya, who stood behind him but made no similar efforts at reassurance. _And over there in the shadows is the scariest person you will ever meet. _"What's your name?"

The girl didn't respond, but stared at him through her tear-filled eyes.

"We're police, but we're not going to hurt you. We're not here to arrest you. We just want to know what happened." This time, Gordon glanced over at Montoya, silently willing her to step in. She obliged and squatted down beside him, on a level so that she had to look up at the young girl.

"I'm Renee," she said, her voice softer than Gordon had ever heard it before. "What's your name?"

This time, the girl responded immediately. "Stacy." She gestured to the body while carefully doing her best not to look at it. "That…that was my friend."

Renee glanced back over her shoulder for a moment, and then turned back to the girl—Stacy. "What was her name?"

"S-sh-" the girl stammered for a moment, and then got a hold of herself. "Shelly. Shelly Hubble." She began crying again, and this time, there was nothing false about her tears. "She was looking out for me."

"What happened?" Renee posed the question gently, trying to keep Stacy on this side of hysteria. "We want to help, honey. But we need to know what happened."

Six feet away, the Batman became utterly still and concentrated.

"Shelly was helping me. She was gonna show me how to work down here—but she said we had to be real quiet about it, 'cause someone was gonna take most of the money we made if they knew."

No one needed to ask what kind of work Shelly was doing, or what she was teaching Stacy. While most prostitutes had pimps, some did have "big sisters" that served in a similar capacity—or at least, they did in the days before the Arrows decided to take over the market. Apparently, Shelly had decided to go it alone. Her broken and bloody body was now a silent and sobering testament to just how risky such a decision could be.

"How long have you been working down here, Stacy?" Montoya's voice was still gentle, but Gordon detected the underlying edge of steel and threw her a look of warning. The last thing they needed was their only witness to think they were going to slap handcuffs on her.

Shock had rendered Stacy less than completely wily, however, and she answered readily enough. "I wasn't working yet," she shrugged, and pulled the blanket closer around her. Gordon reached out and tugged at a corner of the blanket, helping her. That small act of consideration made the world of difference, and Stacy began to speak to Gordon. "I just got to Gotham last week. I don't know my way around here, and I stepped on Shelly's patch. She helped me out. I was gonna stay with her until I started earning money."

Neither Gordon nor Montoya could help but to exchange pointed looks of resignation, and Gordon suspected that, in his hiding place, the Batman was thinking thoughts in a very similar vain: what kind of city did they live in that a prostitute was the most likely citizen to show compassion and to help a homeless runaway kid?

"What happened tonight, Stacy?" Gordon prompted her. He hated to force her to relive it, but this was as close as they had gotten to making any headway. "Who did this to Shelly?"

"I don't know who he is!" Stacy cried. "I don't know his name. Shelly wouldn't tell me. But he scared the shit out of her. She was scared that he was gonna find out, she said he'd kill her if he found out. Then tonight, we was working her patch, and she saw him coming…she made us run, but he followed. She hurt her foot somehow, and she couldn't run any more, and she made me hide, and that's when she called the cops. She tried to hide to, but he found her, and…and , and that was when he started hitting her." By this time, Stacy was crying again, and her breath came in ragged sobs as she began to hyperventilate. "I was too scared to help her."

As Montoya began trying to calm the girl down, Gordon rose and made a beeline to the other side of the ambulance, where he knew the Batman had been lurking.

"We need to get her out of here," were his only words as Gordon approached.

Gordon agreed whole-heartedly. "Whoever it was that did this doesn't know that there was a witness. This is the best—possibly the only—advantage we've got. If they don't know who it is, they can't get to her. We just have to keep her safe."

In Gotham, that was far easier said than executed. Between them lay the knowledge that the last few women to go rat out the Narrows had met sudden, violent deaths. How could this one be any different? Nonetheless...

"We'll keep her safe." The Batman said this with a surprising amount of conviction.

"How?" Gordon ran his fingers through his hair, and the Batman noted with surprise that there was a liberal sprinkling of silver in the sandy strands; the last few years had not been kind to Gordon. "The Arrows seem to seep into any corrupt crack in the city, damn them, and we can't keep any of the witnesses safe."

Restlessness began to seep into the Batman's limbs; he was already formulating a plan, and he was eager to get moving and put it into action. "We'll keep her safe," he told Gordon, and his uncompromising tone spoke of the iron will that would make sure those words became reality. "Bring the girl back to MCU for the night, and keep her safe there. Someone will be there tomorrow to pick her up and keep her in protection until we find this guy."

"Who?" Gordon didn't like the idea of the Batman making executive decisions, even if they did end up being the right ones. "Dammit, you're not running this city."

The Batman did not answer right away; he was busy preparing for his departure. He shot his grappling line to the roof overhead with a zinging _snick_ and gave it a hard tug to ensure its security. "You aren't running it either, Gordon. The city's running us. And that's the problem."

Gordon peered around the ambulance, where Stacy was still sitting. Montoya had managed to calm her down and keep her talking, and had summoned the sketch artist, who was listening intently and drawing at the same time. When Gordon turned back to the Batman, he saw that his eyes were narrowed in thought.

"Meet me on the roof of MCU in three hours, and I'll be able to tell you what's going to happen," the Batman instructed. "By that time, we'll have help. Someone we both trust."

Before Gordon could say anything else, protest, demand more answers, the Batman was gone, and Gordon was left wondering if there was anyone left in the city who could bear the burden that came with the trust of the Batman.

Annabeth couldn't sleep.

It wasn't unusual for her to have difficulty sleeping. Hers were a body and mind which were seldom at rest—even when asleep, thoughts and ideas and concerns and memories weighed heavily upon her, populating her dreams and often awakening her in the dark and lonely hours of the early morning. And then some nights, sleep simply would not come; if there was a lot of work to be done, she held sleep at bay by her sheer strength of will, but sometimes it was simply by her own body's refusal to bow to the normal routine of gaining rest. She hadn't slept soundly, or much, since she was a child, and it was a rather disappointing fact to which she had long ago become resigned. In time, she had even learned to be grateful for this odd little quirk of her body—sleep was for lesser mortals, and ate into the time which she could spend working.

This night, however, her sleeplessness stemmed from another—and very different—source. After Alfred, the ever-accommodating and perpetually amused butler, dropped her off at her condo, Annabeth had headed upstairs, prepared to carry on with her night. But something strange had happened: the devotion and eagerness with which she had intended to attack her work had never materialized. Instead, she had sat down on the living room floor and hunched over the coffee table, where her files and folders were spread, and began to peg away at her endless stacks of paperwork, her progress reports, and her grant applications. She made every effort to focus, to lose herself in the soothing routine of her normal tasks…and failed miserably. Instead of getting caught in the flow of her work, every few minutes her mind would break the surface of her concentration and take deep gulps of the present. What was preventing her from her normal productivity?

The third time she failed to get into the rhythm of her work and her mind sharply focused on her surroundings and her self, rather than her mundane tasks, Annabeth paused and considered. What was going on? Her limbs were wound tightly; there was an energy harnessed there, thrumming through her veins; her hands were slightly clammy; there was a vague unease lurking at the back of her awareness, a tiny, happy thrill, a gleeful anticipation…

_Ah-ha._

It took Annabeth a little while to recognize it: the new feeling of excitement, of half-fearful hope, the growing wonder of the unknown possibilities that came when two people learned of their mutual attraction. Lord, but it had been a while since she had experienced it; it had been a while since she had felt the suppressed excitement, the potential future, the precarious, barely-restrained hope and expectations, the heady rush and almost electrical charge that came when she ran into the object of her affections. In early days, when a potential relationship was forming, both people were still so separate, so distinct, and therefore so ignorant of each other, each waiting to discover the other. When you reveled in the discovery of your emotions, as you relived the memory of the first kiss—those were always the best parts to a relationship—and it had been a very, very long time since Annabeth had known that precarious, euphoric happiness. She had felt it, what, all of two days with poor, long-suffering Robbie; very quickly, that spark had died and he became proof to herself that she could carry on a functional relationship after all that had happened to her. Of course, there was a certain, inherent dysfunction in the relationship, for that reason alone…

_Dammit. _Work would be impossible. Annabeth arose from her position on the living room floor and headed into her bathroom to change and prepare for bed. If she was going to be completely swamped with juvenile daydreams about her crush, she may as well try to do it in the comfort of her warm bed and try to drift into sleep, unlikely a possibility though it was. According to her battered watch, it wasn't quite two in the morning—still plenty of time for her to toss about and pray to the ceiling gods.

Soon, Annabeth was burrowed underneath her blankets, and as she turned out the bedside lamp, she sensed, rather than saw her pets go through their normal routine of sniffing, _mrrowing, _and grunting as they settled onto her bed.

Restlessly, she began to twist about, finding the best position in which to sleep. This was why she simply preferred to stay awake, working herself until exhaustion simply snuck up on her, rather than tossing about in bed and wasting time and waiting for sleep to creep up, too slowly. Still, at least she had something pleasant with which to occupy her mind as she waited for sleep to come. Squeezing her eyes shut and holding back a genuine smile, Annabeth allowed her mind to ponder the thoughts and emotions that had been hovering in her awareness since she had come home earlier that evening.

Bruce Wayne. Not what she had expected; not the billionaire pain-in-the-ass he had initially pretended to be, nor a comple tely debauched playboy, either. Of course, a maybe a tiny, little bit of debauchery wasn't necessarily unwelcome; at the end of the day—or, more specifically, at two a.m. in the morning, Annabeth was, after all, a flesh-and-blood woman, and she had carnal desires, the same as anyone else. She was just more adept than most at suppressing them.

Thinking of carnal pleasures—her mind began to venture down a previously uncharted path as she considered Bruce in relation to the few erotic pleasures she allowed herself to contemplate. As she snuggled down deeper underneath her comforter, she began to imagine how it would feel if Bruce were there, in her bed, right then—what was he like? What would he do? How would his skin feel against hers, how would his hands feel if he ran them through her hair, against her body? Would he be a slow lover, or more aggressive? She was surprised to find that neither possibility was unwelcome in her mind.

Right around this point, as Annabeth imagined Bruce's potential prowess, she suddenly realized she was aroused. There was a heaviness in her, a languorous feeling in her limbs, an tension in her belly, and suddenly, _why not? _Isn't that what people _did, _in the beginning, before consummating their anticipation?Annabeth brought her hands down her belly, imagining Bruce's hands doing the same, inching carefully, down closer to her core, searching, softly stroking-

"Ahem."

The terror that surged through her was instantaneous and equally-short lived; even as she jerked upright, ready to fight the unseen intruder, Annabeth knew exactly who it was.

_"Holy christ!" _she hissed, peering into the darkened bedroom and seeing the hulking, black silhouette of the Batman, slightly darker than the greyness of the bedroom. He stood by the window, and Annabeth could feel the late-night cold already beginning to creep through the open point of ingress. She clutched her chest, where her heart, previously pounding in anticipatory arousal, was now galloping in startlement "You _motherfucker! _What the hell are you doing?"

"Interrupting a private moment, apparently." His voice was as harsh as ever, and Annabeth was grateful that her bedroom was too dark for him to see her blushing. _How much had he seen?_

"It's a private moment, alright, and you're not invited," Annabeth snapped. "You know, if you knocked, like we agreed upon, you wouldn't have warped your fragile little mind with x-rated materials." Indignation and annoyance were rapidly edging any residual embarrassment away, and Annabeth actually reached to turn on the light. Hell if she'd carry on this conversation in the dark—she seriously doubted the Batman had swung by for a peep-show.

"Don't!" he said sharply; so sharply, in fact, that Annabeth didn't even consider disobeying, although hearing his voice without actually seeing his distinct person was actually a little more disquieting than being able to see his intimidating form.

"Fine, fine, settle down," Annabeth grumbled. "What's the big deal with the lights, anyway? It's not like I haven't seen you before." The pointless snippiness actually helped soothe her tangled nerves a small amount, and she settled back down into her pillows and willed her limbs to stop trembling. The adrenaline was still pulsing through, and sleep was completely out of the question now.

"The lights don't need to be on," was the only answer the Batman would give her. He wouldn't reveal the true reason—that seeing her lying in bed, preparing for a very secret, sensual, and private act had completely rattled him, and threatened to cloud his mind even now.

The darkness of the room pressed down around them both as neither Annabeth nor the Batman said anything else. In fact, the darkness heightened Annabeth's other senses, and she was acutely aware of his presence—she could hear his quiet, even breathing, could practically _feel _him, not six feet away. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she began to imagine that he even had the slightest scent that she could detect—but then, right now, she had a scent, a lot more potent, that he could probably smell, too.

To distract herself from this rather flustering thought, Annabeth came out swinging. "It's two-thirty in the morning. You're worse than a telemarketer."

"At least I'm not a pollster," he responded. "And I'm not selling Avon."

"I'm more of a Mary Kay girl, myself." Annabeth didn't even bother to marvel at the surreal quality of this conversation. "But I'm guessing you're not here for make-up tips."

"Not that you're any expert." The retort had popped into his head and out of his mouth before he realized what was happening, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the Batman almost cringed. That was something that Bruce Wayne, not the Batman, would conjure in his banter—his barriers were slipping; the tight borders between his two halves were beginning to break down as Annabeth unknowingly permeated both halves. They were beginning to blend together because of the woman who lay in bed before him.

"That was catty," Annabeth remarked. She stared at his shadowy form, trying to make out any distinguishing features she could. Perhaps it was better that she couldn't—as always, he was completely out of place in her home. In her orderly, civilized sphere, his elemental, raw savagery threatened to displace everything in her life. There was an air of danger to him, that much was patently obvious, but more than that, there was something feral about him, something hard and ruthless and barely controlled or contained by anything, manmade or natural. And that scared the bejesus out of her. "Anyway, _what _are you doing here?"

"I need your help."

Annabeth didn't fail to detect the urgency in his tone. "What's wrong?"

"Another woman was killed tonight. There was a witness, and we need to keep her safe."

"And I come into this…how?" Annabeth prompted him, but she already knew. Oh, the irony; the crazy man in a black suit had originally begun harassing her because he thought she had been the one to betray the Arrows women, and now he was coming to her for help. She knew it, but she was going to make him ask.

Apparently, a little bit of humility was something the Batman had no problems in embracing when the situation called for it. "We need to keep her safe, and we don't want to risk protective custody. The women you helped who _didn't_ become informants are still fine, aren't they?"

She nodded, even though he couldn't see the gesture. _Or perhaps he could._ "Yes. Only the informants, Lizzie, Carrolly, Jeana, were the ones that were killed. Other women defected from the Arrows but refused to talk, and they were fine."

"Because they didn't go into protective custody."

"No, I think because they didn't talk, or they didn't know anything." Annabeth cocked her head. "But you want us to protect someone who _is _going to talk, who _does _know something."

"Her name is Stacy. She's a kid who saw something she shouldn't have, and the Arrows don't know yet. We can't risk putting her into police protective custody." Annabeth wasn't sure it was possible, but his voice deepened into even more of a threatening growl. "Can you keep her safe?"

"I'm not a bodyguard," Annabeth told him. She threw back her covers and stepped out of bed, much to her pets' collective annoyance, and slowly approached the direction of the Batman. "I can't keep her completely safe. I don't have that ability."

"No one does," he replied. For a moment, his tone was almost gentle, understanding, even, and Annabeth was surprised. The next surprise actually caught the Batman off guard, too—without thinking about it, he placed his hands on her shoulders, an unusual act for him, as so much of his persona depended on the distance—physical, emotional, mental—he kept between himself and the few people with whom he worked. "The Commissioner can provide a certain amount of police surveillance and protection, but we need to keep her at your Safe Haven, at least for now. And no one can know."

"No one?" Annabeth repeated in dismay. That edict just made things a lot more complicated. "So you just expect me to show up tomorrow with this girl in tow and not explain to anyone who she is, or why she's there? That's a pretty tall order."

"It's how it has to be," he said flatly. "The less people that know, the less danger she's in."

"_Danger," _Annabeth mocked him. "Yet _everyone _at Safe Haven's going to be in danger now."

"No. Not if no one knows. Not if the Arrows don't know." He didn't remove his hands from her shoulders. "I'll do everything I can to make sure everyone there stays safe. That means you, too. I promise."

Annabeth peered up at him, squinting into the darkness, her eyes trying to penetrate the layers of protective material. She was acutely conscious, both of his hands resting so lightly on her shoulders, despite their size and substance, and also of his close proximity, rendered all the more tangible because of the lack of visibility. _"Who are you?"_

The darkness and the silence were more eloquent than anything the Batman could say, and Annabeth knew that her question was in vain. But then, he spoke.

"Outside of this mask, and this cape," he answered, his voice unusually contemplative, "I am nothing." He squeezed her shoulders. "But in this mask, in this cape, I try to be everything."

Annabeth did not attempt to break away from his grasp, nor did he withdraw his hands from her small, slight shoulders.. They both stood there in the darkness of Annabeth's bedroom, two lone fighters suddenly joined together in the fight against the same enemy that each had been facing on their own. As she stood there, trying to tap into the presence of this man, the thought occurred to Annabeth that he was one of the few people in the whole damned city she could trust. Staring down the abyss as she did now, the only person who stood beside her and shared the same view was a man who could quite possibly benefit from a permanent vacation in Arkham Asylum. Most disturbing of all was the fact that she _should_ be disturbed by all of this, but instead took heart in the fact that she was doing battle alongside the most formidable warrior in Gotham's long and violent history. At some point, Annabeth had begun to accept his presence and see him as an essential ally, and it was an incredibly comforting thought.

"I'll come up with some sort of story," Annabeth sighed, but still couldn't resist asking, "I can't tell _anyone?" _She'd have to come up with something good to satisfy Donna's curiosity. That woman could smell the stink of a lie like it was trash rotting on a Gotham barge on a hot summer's day.

"No one," the Batman affirmed. "Hopefully it will only be a few weeks, maybe a month, until we can get a handle on the Arrows. If we can bring them down, if we can cut them off at their knees, she should be safe soon."

Annabeth didn't try to think about that. Her mind was running through the details, the things that she would have to take care of. If she contemplated the big things—gang warfare, professional mob bosses, major corruption—she'd lose her nerve. She had to focus on the little stuff, on the home front. "What's this girl's story?" she asked. "Where'd she come from?"

"Not sure. She's down at MCU now with Gordon; he's trying to get her statement and a good description of the murderer." The Batman backed up, releasing her shoulders as he did. "I need to get back down there. And you've got some work to do."

"Yeah, no shit. Tell Gordon that the girl…Stacy, you said? They'll need to come up with a different name for her, a different story, completely _not _what the truth is. I'll tell Donna…that one of the nurses from the hospital referred her to us. I'll fabricate a file." Annabeth shivered and silently bade goody-bye to any possibilities for sleep. So much for any _pleasant_ diversions. "Tell Gordon I'll be down at MCU at eight tomorrow morning for her."

She heard a rustle of movement, cloth against steel and Kevlar, and saw him move towards the window. A thought occurred to her. "Wait!"

He waited.

"That woman…the one that approached us with information." In view of the most recent events, it seemed like a very long time ago. "Did you ever find out who it was? She still might be our best source."

"I've got people working on it." By '_people', _he meant Alfred, who had recently be spending many of his already busy daylight hours following up on possible leads and hunches. "Hopefully we'll know who she is soon. We need to find her."

Annabeth was in complete agreement. "She's _got _to know more, especially after what happened tonight."

He began to climb through her window, but paused for a moment. "If you need me, go through Gordon. In the meantime, you be careful. If we get close to figuring this out, you'll be in danger."

Annabeth turned away, as much to give him the privacy to make his mysterious departure as anything else, but she couldn't resist having the last words. "I'm not afraid of danger," she told him, over her shoulder.

His prompt response was surprising. "I know. That's what worries me."

And then he jumped.

* * *

Gotham was the city that never slept—usually because during the night hours when people _should_ have been sleeping, it seemed like an overwhelming number of them emerged to get up into their unlawful shenanigans. And so long as those people were in the streets and alleys during those dark hours, the Gotham MCU was the police department that never slept. It was also the police department that consumed obscene amounts of coffee—there was a sub-line inf the city's annual budget for it—and none of that decaffeinated crap, either. Caffeine for these men and women was their ambrosia, their liquid of life. Those who watered it down with cream and sugar were considered nothing but amateurish pussies.

Gordon was on his third cup of the night, but if he were honest, this one was to warm his hands, for he was standing out on the roof of MCU, trying to fight back the cold by clutching the mug tightly. In fact, he was almost loathe to sip at the hot, black liquid, for it would drain away the warmth, little by little.

As he paced the roof and waited for the Batman to make his appearance, his mind wandered far away from the activities and research and investigations taking place in the floors below, and came to rest on his own little home, the small house he and his wife had purchased a just after his promotion, down at the Naval Tricorner Yards. It was an older part of the city—one of the few places they could afford on his salary—but a decent place, no more dangerous than most residential areas of Gotham. They had never been really happy there; even before the horrible nightmare that Harvey Dent and the Joker visited upon them, their marriage had been showing strains, but Gordon had had renewed hope when he and the family moved in after his promotion. He had hoped that the house would usher in a new era of their lives. But now, no doubt the house was silent, bereft of the wifely influence Barbara had brought to bear; no doubt his youngest children were asleep, troubled by the sudden changes that had come upon them; no doubt the only signs of life and happiness stemmed from Barbara Jr., who was probably even now sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over her books and her laptop and awaiting her father's return. _What a life._

Intent as Gordon was on these melancholy ruminations, he didn't notice the Batman as he silently arrived. Only when he was standing almost on top of Gordon did the Commissioner look up from his mug and attend to the latest issues.

"The girl's calmed down." Gordon actually took a gulp of the coffee and felt a tiny sense of happiness as it scorched his chest and settled in his stomach with a satisfying warmth. "She's with Montoya for now. You feel like sharing your master plan?"

"Annabeth de Burgh." The Batman's gravelly voice sounded more ominous than normal, and that he wasn't thrilled with the decision or their limited choices was quite obvious. "She's the best ally we have right now."

Gordon snorted. "We were investigating her only a couple of months ago. I don't think she's involved, not at all, but don't you think bringing her into this is a little…hasty? Risky, even?"

"She's already involved," the Batman snapped. He turned away from Gordon and looked out at the city, glittering in the cold, clear air. "You know she'd find a way to get into the middle of this, anyway. She runs a safe house for women and it's fairly secure. We may as well avail ourselves to her help."

Gordon knew, without having to ask, that the Batman was not thrilled with the involvement of a civilian. Still, Annabeth de Burgh _had_been involved in this mess for a while yet, and she was a smart woman, tough and aware and more trustworthy than most of his own people. It was not a comforting thought. He sighed in defeat, and could only contemplate the unhappy thought that the civilians of Gotham could possibly do a better job of policing the city than his own police force could.

"Gotham needs you." The Batman meant this as encouragement, but Gordon was slightly unnerved that he had been able to tap into his own unhappy thoughts so easily. Was Gordon that transparent, or was the Batman just that creepily, supernaturally perceptive? "I wouldn't be able to do this without your help."

Most nights, Gordon was too busy, too weighed down with the burdens of Gotham to contemplate the strange turn his life had taken since the Batman had entered the city, entered his life. Most nights, there was no time to marvel at the wondrous sight of a man who could, for all intents and purposes, _fly, _withstand bullets, appear invincible. Most nights, he could not resent the Batman for being the catalyst for so much change, but there were some times when he wished for the simpler, quieter, less complicated life of Before. And yet—that life had been unbearable. At least he knew, now, that it was safe for him to be an honest cop and a good man. He owed the Batman that much, and perhaps much, much more—no matter the damage that had come to Gordon's family, he couldn't blame it on the Batman. Some things in Gordon's life had been broken for a very long time.

"Is your family well?" Although the Batman was genuinely curious, he felt it was extremely awkward to be holding any sort of personal conversation. It changed their dynamic somehow. But still, he could be concerned, he could try to help, without completely destroying the mystique he had deliberately created.

"My family?" Gordon considered this for a moment. "My family, at the moment, is composed of one wife in rehab who won't speak to me, two young children who don't understand why Mommy left, and one party animal librarian-in-training who is watching over them and quite possibly teaching them Urdu and encouraging them to rebel against the capitalist system. And let's not forget me, who barely sees them, and when I do, can barely look them in the eye. Does it sound like we're doing well?" At the moment, he couldn't look the Batman in the eye, either—if he could not keep his own home and family together, how the hell was he supposed to keep Gotham City from falling apart?

"A simple 'horrible' would have sufficed," the Batman responded, after a pregnant pause. "But thanks for the honesty.

Eager to change the subject—he was no more comfortable with exchanging confidences than was the Batman—Gordon reached into his jacket and extracted the file folder he had been clutching to him. "Here's a copy of the information we've gotten so far—witness's statement, artistic rendering of the perp, preliminary autopsy results. The usual." He passed them to the Batman, who immediately opened the folder and began perusing the contents. Gordon knew what he was looking at—the artistic rendering, a simple pencil drawing of a relatively young, incredibly lanky man with a childish face. The girl had gotten a good enough look at him to recall his features with a fair amount of specificity, and Gordon had a hunch that this would be the break they needed. All that was required were enough cops who hadn't been bought by the Arrows—if he assigned the women and men that felt he could trust to a manhunt, they might be able to bring this guy in.

"I'll be looking for him," the Batman promised, his steely gaze taking in the picture. This was who had murdered the men and women throughout Gotham; to the Arrows, it may have been a simple business decision, nothing more and nothing less, but for someone to attack and beat with such violent, wild abandon, spoke of something much more personal. This man was unhinged, and they had to get to him as soon as possible—not only to protect any other future victims, but he was hoping if he was crazy enough, he'd betray the Arrows. Because the way it was beginning to seem, few very sane people would be willing to. But in the meantime…

"Can you provide some surveillance of Safe Haven?" he asked Gordon. "Nothing too heavy, but it would need to be constant. And we need who ever it is to be trustworthy."

"Montoya." Gordon said this automatically. "I'll put her in charge of a surveillance team. She'll make sure that everyone is clean."

After that, there was little left to say, and even less left to do. The sky to the east was beginning to lighten to a bluish-grey, and the Batman knew that the end of his usefulness for another night was near. The need for sleep was beginning to seep into his awareness, and he could see that Gordon was in similar straits.

In Gotham City, there was no rest for the wicked, and so there was no rest for the good, either.


	26. Chapter 26

Four-thirty in the morning. Trinity should have been sound asleep. She _had _been, actually; she had been encased in a deep and dreamless slumber despite the fact that the detestable lump of flesh that was Donzetti had opted to fall asleep at her place that night, after an evening filled with a very lengthy gourmet dinner and a very vigorous but mercifully brief sexual encounter. They had slept, but at four-thirty in the morning, both had been dragged into wakefulness by a loud and persistent ringing. As Trinity sat up, she quickly realized it was her doorbell; beside her, Donzetti was a little bit slower on the uptake and began groping about for his cell phone. Trinity spared him one exasperated look before she rose from the warm cocoon of her bed and threw on a dressing gown. It had long been her experience that anyone ringing the doorbell in the early morning did not bring happy tidings.

Swiftly she padded through the bedroom and living room, flicking on lights as she did. Back in the bedroom, she heard Donzetti finally stirring out of bed and following her, and by the time he had caught up with her, Trinity had gazed through the peephole and thrown open the door to reveal a very agitated Jones le Blanc.

"Donzetti's here, right?" he snapped at Trinity, not bothering with his customary smarmy charm. He peered over Trinity's shoulder and saw that Donzetti was, indeed, there, and without waiting for permission or invitation, he shouldered his way into the condo. Wisely and wordlessly, Trinity stepped back, allowing him to pass, wrapping her dressing gown tighter around herself as she closed the front door. Even as she did this, the two men were hustling away from her, closeting themselves into her guest bedroom and closing the door behind them.

Trinity suppressed a sigh of annoyance. She was fully awake now, and so returning to her bed was pointless. And yet, with the two mobsters in the next room, discussing god only knew what, she hardly felt comfortable in her own home. Both of them—Donzetti with his almost nightly visits, and Jones with his less frequent, yet more ominous appearances—brought a taint into her home, and left her feeling as though she did not wish to be in her own home when they were present. When this whole drama had played itself out and her elegant world was once more set to rights, she was seriously going to consider relocating, perhaps not just to a different home, but maybe even to a new city—some place far away, where Gotham was nothing more than at best a joke and at worst an example of really shocking crime statistics.

That time was still quite far off, and perhaps wouldn't come at all without an effort on her part. With great stealth, Trinity slipped back into her bedroom, and feeling a bit like a fool, she knelt down by the vents in the wall shared with the guest bedroom. The vents, she knew, were connected, and eavesdropping was an embarrassingly easy task.

"…Seems like our Boyo got himself discovered. So much for flying under the radar. He's completely unhinged, and the police are looking for him. It's going to be on the morning news…" that was Jones, sounding more irate than anything else.

"What'd he do?" Donzetti was still sounding as though he were half-asleep.

"Got a bit too enthusiastic with some hooker down near Wharfside and beat the bitch to death—not the first time this has happened, but somehow the police caught wind of it and made the connection; there must have been a witness."

"We need to neutralize him." Now there was a little more alertness in Donzetti's voice, a little more of his usual testosterone-charged belligerence. Trinity rolled her eyes; _neutralize him? _Please. Donzetti couldn't even neutralize Switzerland.

"He's gone to ground. Took off after leaving a note at the club. Christ knows where he's at, and god help us if the police get a hold of him. Skinny little fucker'll tell 'em everything they want to know."

Donzetti swore then, a long string of expletives joined together in a creative fashion the likes of which Trinity had not credited him to be capable of. She actually drew her head back from the vent for a moment, eager to distance herself from some of the more foul blasphemies, but forced herself to lean back in and listen.

"We've got other problems," Jones continued on after Donzetti had reached the end of his tirade. "Boy-o was supposed to be the one to make the trip next month. He was going to supervise the shipments and make sure the Chechens got the payment. Now you'll have to go."

As she listened to these words, a dozen thoughts and questions began to crowd into Trinity's keen mind—she would have to feign surprise and disappointment when Donzetti told her. She would have to find a way to contact Annabeth de Burgh and let her know about this development. And where was Donzetti going? But overpowering all these smaller details that would require her attention was an undeniable sense of relief. For a little while, however brief, Donzetti would be absent from her life, and it was a realization which brought her no small measure of joy. Whatever Donzetti was up to, wherever he was going, at least it would be without her. The idea of freedom was so dizzying, Trinity had to sit back on her heels for a moment and draw a deep breath. To tell the truth, so much of her life lately had been spent in the vigilant cultivation of an act—to most people, she was Donzetti's beautiful mistress, reasonably intelligent but reassuringly disinterested in his activities. To Donzetti, she was the alluring sexpot who doted upon him. And to herself, she barely knew anymore.

Now was not the time to get lost in existential philosophizing—no doubt Donzetti and Jones would soon halt their conversation, and she had better appear as though she has been completely oblivious to their insidious occupations. Silently she made her way back out of the bedroom and opted to take refuge in the kitchen; coffee was needed, not just for her, but for the two men, as well. If for a second she thought she could get away with adding to the pot a liberal dose of cyanide, she would have done it.

Another five minutes passed before Jones and Donzetti emerged; Jones looking considerably less perturbed, with his jowls hanging into a self-satisfied smile, Donzetti looking very much like the cat that ate the canary. No doubt he had once more convinced Jones that he was indispensable. And perhaps in his own way, he was—Donzetti may have been a little stupid, he may have been a lecher without a conscience, but no one could say that he had ever been disloyal.

Trinity stood at the kitchen counter, watching the two of them. Donzetti smiled, slowly, and sidled up to her. Slipping an arm around her waist, he kissed her head and said, more than a little boastfully, "I'm going to be gone for a few weeks, sweetheart."

Trinity pulled a disappointed face, and then brightened. "Where are you headed? Can I go with you?" Of course, she had no conceivable desire to follow him to whatever cesspool of misery Jones had charged him with visiting, but even now, her mind was at work, trying to find every possible way to extract information that she could pass along. But this backfired—to her dismay, Donzetti appeared to be considering the possibility of her company. He didn't answer right away, but his eyes began to twinkle at the thought.

Jones cleared his throat and shook his head, just the tiniest shake, and Donzetti sighed. "'Fraid not, baby. Looks like it's important business, and you'd be better off here."

"Don't worry, Trin," Jones assured her. "We'll keep an eye out for you, make sure you don't miss Donzetti too much."

Did she detect an underlying threat in his words, overtly intended to comfort her, or was it merely a product of her overwrought imagination, worn thin by too many anxieties? Trinity chose to take the reassurance at face value and managed to muster a small, sad smile. "I might need the company." She leaned into Donzetti. "Either of you want coffee?"

"None for me, thanks." Jones began to move for the door. "I don't want to wear out my welcome, and I got a lot of stuff to take care of. Donzetti—see you in a few hours?" He didn't wait for a reply, but promptly turned around and headed out the door. And as abruptly as he had entered, turning the world topsy-turvy, he was gone.

Donzetti yawned. "Shit, what time is it?" He glanced at his watch, a gaudy gold thing. "It's after five in the morning, already. Any chance of getting any more sleep?"

"Not if you drink any coffee." Trinity nudged him towards the bedroom. "Why don't you head back to bed? I'll be there in a few minutes." She slid her eyes towards him, an unmistakably seductive glint in them. "Maybe we can make up for the upcoming time apart." _And I can pump you for more information while trying not to vomit in my mouth._

This tantalizing prospect seemed to render Donzetti even more pliable than normal, and with a hearty kiss on her mouth and a none-too-gentle slap on her ass, he ambled into Trinity's bedroom and left her standing in the kitchen, alone with her thoughts.

She peered out the kitchen window, and saw that the first streaks of color had crept into the cold night sky; faint traces of pink and orange in the otherwise grey expanse over Gotham promised a brilliant sunrise. Trinity was not a superstitious person—she was too hard, too polished, too sensible for that—but she had to take comfort in the dawn, and she chose to see it as a good omen. Perhaps a dawn _was _coming, perhaps this night was the turning point that could help her reclaim her own life, and help purge Gotham of some of its rotten people and the evil that men did.

With a sigh, she headed off to the bedroom. There would be no more sleep for her on this night.

* * *

There were a lot of people in Gotham who did not sleep that night. And in the Palisades, there was another.

The older he became, the less sleep Alfred needed. If he didn't know better, didn't already know that many older people tended to sleep less, he would have perhaps thought that it was simply his body biologically attuning itself to the needs of his employer, as much out of sympathy as necessity. But he did know better, and simply accepted it as one of the few conveniences of advancing age. Therefore, it was no hardship for Alfred to burn the midnight oil that night and in fact refrain from sleep entirely.

He actually rather enjoyed the all-night vigils he maintained for Master Bruce. Over time, it had afforded him many, many opportunities to contemplate the quandaries and complexities of life. Living almost completely alone in Wayne Manor, filled with the memories and ghosts of many generations, certainly provided the motive, and even the need, to ponder. Even before young Master Wayne had disappeared, Alfred had often wandered the rooms and corridors, reflecting upon the family he had chosen to serve. And after Master Wayne had returned—finally a man, if a somewhat enigmatic and distant man—Alfred had only been given more cause to ruminate.

It was the setting, that was what it boiled down to. Even though the original manor had been destroyed, its replacement was so accurate, so true to the original structure, it was of no use to try to convince himself that it was not the same. For all intents and purposes, it _was _the same, and both Alfred and Master Wayne perceived it as such. It was the same house that Alfred had lovingly and vigilantly maintained for years, it was the same house that had sheltered generations of Waynes, it was simply the same house, from cellar to garret.

Not only did Wayne Manor appear the same, it _felt_ the same. For all its splendor and priceless treasures, it still felt empty, lonely, emotionally hollow—an uncanny reflection of its broken owner. And yet. Alfred suspected that perhaps the Manor had always felt that way. The manor had been built to shelter and nurture the Wayne dynasty, but somehow, that dynasty had never really flourished. The Wayne Family Tree was really more of a shrub, its growth blighted and stunted in ironically inverse proportion to the Wayne family fortune. Case in point—Master Bruce was the sole surviving Wayne, and had been since his parents had died. As far as Alfred could tell, it had always been like that; the Wayne family carried on its bloodline by a fragile thread indeed. Why this was, Alfred couldn't say, really—whether the Waynes were simply not highly sexed, or did not have strong reproductive genes (neither of which Alfred particular relished pondering, but he supposed either, or perhaps both, were likely), the end result was still the same: Wayne Manor was, and always had been, a vast and lonely place that had never been given the chance to achieve its full potential.

If Alfred were given to a more melancholy disposition, this all would have grieved him more. And it _did _bother him, just a little—sometimes he did wish rather fervently that some of those beautiful rooms could be filled with warmth and life and laughter and love, that Master Bruce could make more of a family for himself and makes peace with the hand he had been dealt, that Thomas and Martha Wayne could reach out from beyond the grave and guide their son, the Wayne dynasty's sole heir, back towards hope and life. But Alfred had always been a pragmatic man, and the passing of years had only solidified this pragmatism. And so it was that as he watched the shadows deepen under Master Bruce's eyes and within his soul, he knew it became less and less likely that the Wayne family line would ever thrive again.

This realization did not make Alfred's solitary, all-night vigils any easier, but nor did it make them any harder. With the strange return of Master Bruce had come not only welcome company, but also a whole new set of burdens and worried. _Be careful what you wish for._

That night, as the Batman was gadding about and interrupting Annabeth's attempt at nocturnal satisfaction, Alfred had decided to carry on his vigil in the study—close enough to reach the cave with great speed, and well-stocked with plenty of reading material to help pass the hours. In fact, Alfred had ensconced himself into an armchair and commenced reading a fine 19th-century edition of _The Prince, _bound in elegant red morocco. He had personally procured it from an antiquarian book dealer based in Cambridge, England, an old and trusted business associate who had, in fact, acquired _all _the books in the study, as well as throughout Wayne Manor. It had been one of the more expensive ventures in the re-building of the manor; Alfred had spent several hundred thousand, but while Master Wayne hadn't batted an eyelash at the final bill, Alfred strongly suspected the young man had not actually perused any of the books, either. Bruce loved books, Alfred knew, loved the knowledge, the power, the information, but there was simply not enough time.

Alfred had the time, however, and on the nights when Master Wayne was out exceptionally late, busting heads or rescuing kittens or preventing Armageddon, Alfred quite often found his way to the study. It was comforting there, and never as lonely as the rest of the Manor—after all, in the study he was surrounded by the immortal voices of hundreds of men and women who had looked at the world through courageous, questing eyes and spoke words of truth and beauty that lived on and on, keeping an old man company and turning his attention away from morose and disturbing contemplations of the sexual and reproductive failures of the Waynes.

"Just not what I want to think about," he spoke aloud, in explanation to the indifferent portraits of Thomas and Martha Wayne. And yet, he _did _think about it. He thought about Master Bruce and his strange, lonely existence, and he thought about the ever-more-remote possibility of him finding a partner, a lover, a spouse to love him and help make him whole. Even then, though, would it be enough? Sometimes Alfred doubted there was any woman tough enough to maintain a healthy composure in the face of the stress and demands that would accompany the role of Bruce Wayne's wife. And yet—there was Annabeth de Burgh, one of the strangest and strongest women Alfred had ever encountered. Master Wayne certainly had been pursuing her with more attentiveness than his usual lackadaisical, haphazard interest. Alfred knew Master Bruce's interest in Annabeth was not feigned—but what the end results would be was anyone's guess. He tried for a moment to imagine Annabeth as the matriarch of the Wayne family, charged not only with loving and supporting Master Bruce, but running the vast house and grounds, entertaining guests, overseeing the numerous charities, supervising staff, and perhaps even filling the nurseries. It was a difficult thing to imagine…but at almost five-thirty in the morning, what else was there left to do?

_Blast it, _he had been at it again, contemplating Bruce Wayne's potential romantic and procreative future. The house really needed a dog—no, _Alfred_ really needed a dog, something big and goofy and distracting and undignified, something friendly and warm and lovable. A golden retriever, perhaps. Master Bruce wouldn't like it, of course, for it was a personal luxury after all, something the man was keen on denying himself. But then, he probably wouldn't notice a dog in the house for at least a month, which would be how long it would take for the long, golden fur to start clinging to the batsuits and armor.

Alfred had built up a fire in the fireplace earlier, and now a log popped, sending a shower of sparks upward into the chimney and drawing his eyes towards the beautiful image. He found enormous beauty and comfort in almost everything these days, most likely another product of his advancing years.

Any more thoughts that threatened to take him down this disturbing path were interrupted by a shrill beeping emitted by the device Alfred wore in his suit jacket—it was a device that had the appearance of those silly pagers that had been all the rage back in the 90s, but this device was connected to a series of motion and sound sensors he and Master Bruce had installed in the cave and throughout the grounds. The sensors had been programmed to identify a variety of motions, vibrations, and sounds—the reverberations of a powerful engine, for example, or the labored breathing of an injured person—and to beep at different pitches accordingly. It was a set-up that had been intended to alert Alfred, no matter where he was in the Manor, and had the added bonus of being loud enough to wake the dead.

And now, Master Bruce had arrived back home, and Alfred's real work was about to begin. He rose and activated the secret entrance to the cave, and within moments, he was descending into the darkness that the master had brought home with him all those many months ago.

Behind him, above him, the manor slumbered on, even more empty and abandoned than before, forever enshrined in a cursed sleep from which it seemed nothing would ever kiss it awake.

* * *

When Alfred entered the cave—dark, dank, and incredibly primitive, especially when compared to the civilized beauty of the manor house above—he was struck by the sense that _this _was the only place within the Manor that was alive, that thrived. Here was the only place where there was any heart, any activity, any interest. Everything else was just a sham.

The Batman was just climbing out of the Tumbler as Alfred approached, and much to the older man's relief, he appeared to be unhurt. It was one of Alfred's few and deeply private anxieties that one day, the young master would return home with a mortal wound, the treatment of which even Alfred, with his considerable field medic skills, would be unequal to. And while he thanked whatever god was on duty every night that this did not come to pass, Alfred feared that it was also another night of borrowed time.

"Morning, Alfred," the Batman said, but it was with Bruce's voice, carefully casual, revealing nothing of what had unfolded in the night. "Get any sleep at all?"

"I sleep when you sleep," Alfred responded with a wry smile. "Are you alright, sir?"

"I'm fine. Tired." And as he pulled off the cowl, reverting to his Bruce Wayne identity, his appearance confirmed his words. He did look tired, and too, older than his years. "It was a very long night."

"And not at all how you expected it to turn out," Alfred added as he took the cowl and began to assist with the removal of the armor. "Miss de Burgh was quite bemused at being so readily abandoned."

"Was she angry?"

"No." Alfred recalled Annabeth's surprise and open admiration of Bruce Wayne's dedication to his work. "At least, she wasn't until I hinted to her that you had been called away to judge at a beauty pageant in one of the new nightclubs."

The baleful glare that Bruce gave the butler would have been far more intimidating had he still been in full battle attire. Alfred paid no mind to it, and began to carry the armor back to its storage area. "She was actually quite pleased to see you so dedicated to your work," he said over his shoulder. "I think it made quite a good impression on her. A very unique lady, that one."

When he returned, Bruce had already seated himself at the work bench, and was deep in thought. Alfred silently stood by, unwilling to interrupt him, and after a moment, Bruce began to speak.

"I still think about what she told me." Bruce looked at Alfred then, and his eyes were haunted. "She didn't go into much detail, but…" he foundered for a moment. "It was enough." It _had _been enough, to be sure, to plague him in his sleep, to dog his awareness as he contemplated the black and rotting nature of Gotham, and compel him to look upon Annabeth with more understanding, more admiration, and the beginnings of something else, some deeper, more powerful emotion, one that it was becoming impossible to ignore. "Alfred," Bruce said, and there was a pleading note in his voice, "You knew about all of it already. I need for you to show me all the information you found on Annabeth."

Alfred frowned, not liking the direction this conversation was heading. "Is that really necessary, sir?" He struggled to remember what he had read in the police reports, the medical records, and the social services files on Annabeth, which he had hacked into. He had no doubt there were more details in all of that than what Annabeth had told Bruce—no doubt she had wanted to protect him.

"It's necessary, alright." The fanatical gleam in Bruce's eye was back, but there was something else, too. His perfectly-sculpted mouth had tightened into a grimace. "There's something we're missing, here, Alfred. I've been thinking about it all night, and there's just something…off. Somehow this all ties back in to Annabeth…" he saw Alfred's look of disbelief. "No, she's not _involved. _Not in any way that she knows about. But there's just something that's bothering me. I want to start at the beginning; I want to see what we might have missed."

Alfred sighed. "The main computer's up and running. It should only take a minute to hack into the city's server. Try not to break the Internet, Master Bruce." He began to head towards the lift. "I'm going to make you some breakfast."

He doubted whether Bruce even heard him, for as he threw one glance back at him, the younger man was already hunched over the powerful computer they had built the previous year, typing away and intent on hacking into the files that he somehow suspected would hold all the answers.

Alfred suspected that there would only be more questions.

* * *

Half an hour later, Alfred's unspoken suspicions were proven correct. Bruce sat back and exhaled as he gazed at the computer monitor. Displayed on the monitor was a PDF file of Annabeth's case id, GCPD-VCU-1995-2987(1266). Gotham City Police Department, Violent Crimes Unit, with the year and a unique case number, as well as a parenthesized number to indicate its unsolved status. The first document was Annabeth's statement, penned in the spring of 1995, and scanned into the computer files of the Gotham City PD when they went online in 1999. He read through the statement quickly, yet taking in every word and detail. There had been a lot about that night that Annabeth hadn't told him, and in hindsight, after reading her statement, Bruce began to feel as though perhaps he would have been better off still not knowing. But it was knowledge that was his now, a burden that he would always carry, even if Annabeth never knew it.

_The evil that men do…_

Directing his thoughts away from the details, away from the Annabeth that he knew personally, Bruce tried to approach it as though she were simply another victim he was helping. That was the only way that he could keep sane. He began sorting through the other files, records, and statements linked to her case, and it was then that, thankfully, the personal fell away and became professional. Annabeth de Burgh, Bruce's love interest, ceased to exist, and became Annabeth de Burgh, victim of Gotham. Detachment set in as his nimble mind began processing the information, committing as much of it to memory as possible, and synthesizing it with all the other information he had acquired. It was heartbreaking to Bruce, horrifying to the Batman, and yet—he didn't see how it explained how Annabeth could be connected.

The rattling of the elevator shaft indicated Alfred's descent into the cave, and Bruce emerged from his investigations, his mind clearing and his eyes focusing. He looked gratefully at the tray that Alfred bore in his hands; the scents of coffee and hot food filled the dank, clammy air, and the linen napkins and the rose in its bud vase that Alfred had added to the tray looked absurdly incongruous—and yet comfortingly beautiful. As Alfred set the tray down, Bruce pulled away from the computer and fell onto the food, devouring the multigrain toast, egg-white omelet, and fruit salad with great hunger. While he ate, Alfred seated himself at the computer and continued the research.

A moment later, Bruce's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of something on the monitor. "What's that?"

Alfred read the document. "It's one of the last things in the file, the record of when they brought in the suspects."

"Who are they?" Bruce's voice was low and cold and had taken on a particularly deadly sound. Alfred gave him a sharp look, studying him for any signs of personal vendetta, but after a moment, began to read off the names. "Jason Smith, Donald Lee, Zachary Isaacson, and Clay Alder."

"Cross-check them in whatever databases we have access to." Bruce had stopped eating, and all of his attention was on the monitor. "Project whatever you find on the monitor."

Whatever misgivings Alfred may have had, he kept them to himself as he began accessing records—public and private—for the city, county, and state, as well as some of the neighboring states. He wasn't sure what they were expecting to find, but he wasn't ready for the first hit that came up on their search.

Staring in unconcealed surprise at the monitor, Alfred nonetheless projected it onto the monitor and read the results, however unnecessarily. Bruce was staring at the monitor too, in equal surprise.

"Death certificate for Zachary Isaacson, issued August 29, 1995." Alfred clicked on the link, and a blown-up version of the certificate was displayed. "Cause of death, unintentional self-harm." He continued reading, pursing his lips. "Looks like it was an accidental overdose of something, just as the fall semester started."

Bruce shook his head. "Stupid college students. God only knows where he got his drugs from. Still…" he paused. "Is it just coincidence?"

Alfred didn't answer, but continued to run the search. After a moment, his face became a mask of grimness. "Here's another hit—death certificate for Jason Smith. Cause of death, assault with a deadly weapon. Here's a news article result, too—apparently he was in a bar fight in the spring of 1996 that went wrong." Alfred turned back to Bruce. "Apparently, Clay Alder was also killed in that same fight."

Three of Annabeth's four attackers dead within a year of the attack? It was no longer coincidence, but something far more sinister and deliberate. "What about the last guy? Donald Lee?"

Alfred began typing again; unlike Bruce, who would hunker down like a hunchback over the keyboard, Alfred retained a proud, upright, and thoroughly British posture even when engaged in the entirely modern and slightly vulgar act of web-surfing. A few tense minutes passed as Alfred began digging deeper than had been required of him for the other records, and then, finally, he spoke. "There's a variety of hits coming up…all of them newspaper articles, as well as a missing persons report. Looks as though Donald Lee went missing in early 1997; went out to party one night and never returned to his frat house. The last article is from June of 1997, saying that the search was called off and the family held a memorial service for him."

The two men stared at each other. Finally, Alfred ventured, "I seriously doubt Miss de Burgh knows about this."

Bruce didn't like to think of the alternative. "I don't want to think so." He thought of Annabeth, her fierce integrity, her courage, and above all, her pain. "It's very unlikely…but still, it's too coincidental. All of them, dead within two years? What the hell happened?"

There was no answer that Alfred could provide; just as he had expected, there were only more questions. But as he saw Bruce's eyes begin to droop, and watched as sleep, too-long delayed, began to creep into the young man's body, one thing became clear: no answers would come until both of them had gotten some rest. Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder, and no more words were needed. Together, both of them headed towards the lift, their heads filled with half-articulated thoughts, but above all, the need for rest. Such was the fate of the crusaders of Gotham; all the information they got seemed only to lead to too many questions, and not enough time to answer them.


	27. Chapter 27

Excerpt from the Wednesday, November 12, 2008 edition of the _Gotham Gazette_, Society Column, Section B1:

_**Senator's Son's Society Wedding A Selective Soiree**_

_**When political veteran and Democrat Senator Gregory Winston announced the engagement of his son Bradford to the lovely and philanthropically-inclined photographer Elisa St. Marie, many citizens and paparazzi hoped that the wedding would be a large and public affair that would be the toast of Gotham. Alas, society will be disappointed: this is one of the most exclusive affairs of the year; the Winston family eschews the limelight and prefers their celebrations away from the prying eyes of the media and public.**_

_**This does not mean that the wedding will be either small or sparsely attended; among the guests are counted several actors, many of the Winstons' political colleagues, lobbyists, and connections as well as a respectable representation from Gotham's Captains of Industry, including longtime family friend Wayne and his current paramour, Annabeth de Burgh. The Winston wedding will no doubt be a lavish affair, and the celebrations will be taking place this weekend, over an extended period, in the Winston's Berkshire home.**_

With a copy of the _Gazette _tucked under his arm, Bruce arrived at Safe Haven very early that Wednesday morning, just at the same time that Donna did. As he joined her in mounting the steps to the building, she glanced at him in wordless surprise for a moment, but then merely gave him her customary smile of well-polished, politic good grace. Her only comment was typically succinct: "You're certainly here early this morning." The explanation was obvious, however: along with the _Gazette, _he was carrying several blue-prints, rolled tightly and hiding goodness only knew what late-night inspirations he had cooked up.

"I'm an early riser," Bruce answered with an easy grin. Donna had been unlocking the front doors, but stopped to look at him sharply. Despite his perfectly groomed appearance, his meticulously ironed slacks, and his air of easy, vibrant good health, there was no hiding the shadows under his eyes. Silently she surmised that it was less to do with being an early riser and more to do with burning the candle at both ends; perhaps it was not that Bruce Wayne was an early riser but that he had never gone to sleep at all. She could only imagine what shenanigans he had managed to embroil himself in during the wee hours. She kept these thoughts to herself, however, and only nodded towards his blueprints. "I see you've been brainstorming again."

Bruce nodded, and there was no need for him to force the enthusiasm which sparkled in his eyes. "I was going over the blueprints—" Actually, Alfred had been going over the blueprints the night before whilst waiting for Bruce's return to the Manor the night before, but Donna didn't need to know that— "And thought of some other things that we can add into them." He held the door open for Donna, and together they ducked into the building, out of the biting cold that had settled onto Gotham for the duration of the season. Inside, Safe Haven was a center of warmth and quiet; it was still too early for most of its inhabitants to be awake. Thomas the security guard was there, and gave them a wordless, cheerful wave as they walked past his desk.

"Let me guess," Donna smiled as they waited by the elevator. "You want to install a waterslide? Or a lazy river, maybe?"

"No—although I _was_ thinking about it, until one of my accountants pointed out that the insurance premiums would be prohibitive. Who knew Gotham had such a high percentage of its population who couldn't swim?" Bruce shook his head at the absurdity of it all.

"Well," Donna pointed out, "there aren't a lot of public pools in the city, and the only substantial body of water in the vicinity is the Gotham River."

Bruce shuddered, and that was no act, either. "Fair enough...somehow I don't think people would be willing to swim in a river where fish haven't lived since 1950. I was thinking, though, maybe if we can get the building wired correctly, we could put a career center in it. _And,"_ he added before Donna had a chance to get a word in edgewise, "I was thinking maybe we could talk to the Commissioner about the possibility of opening a branch location of the Gotham City PD nearby."

After a moment's stunned silence, Donna actually burst into disbelieving laughter.

Not certain why, Bruce joined in. "What?"

Donna's mirth continued during the brief elevator ride to the upper floors, and it wasn't until they were standing outside her office door and Donna actually had to focus on unlocking the door that she finally caught her breath. "I'm sorry, Bruce…it's just that…has _anyone _ever told you 'no'?"

"'No?'" Bruce repeated the word thoughtfully, stretching it out a little bit to hear how it sounded. "I'm not sure I know what that word means. I'm fairly certain that wasn't on any of our vocabulary lists at school." He followed Donna into her office and helped her out of her wool coat, going so far as to hang it behind her door for her. Only after Donna had seated herself at her desk did Bruce sit down as well, and as he did he noted the amusement in her shrewd eyes.

"You may not have learned the meaning of 'no' in school, but they certainly did teach you some manners." Donna clearly approved of this. "I can see why you've charmed Annabeth."

He had been about to spread out the blueprints on Donna's desk, but her deliberately-chosen words drew his attention away from the prints. "Seriously?"

"Don't be coy, Bruce," Donna chided him. "False modesty doesn't suit you. Yes, your persistence in courting Annabeth seems to have paid off; she's been a little ball of almost-happiness lately. If I'd have known that getting laid would make her sweet, I'd have set her up with someone _ages _ago."

As much to his own amazement as Donna's, a blush stole over Bruce's handsome features. "We haven't…ah…well…" Donna's eyebrows practically popped off her forehead, and he hurried to finish. "We're taking things slow, you see."

Donna _did _see, more than Bruce had meant to reveal. A look passed between them; each of them was silently probing the other to see how much each one knew. After a moment, Donna turned to her computer and said briskly, "Well, all things considered, that's probably for the best. Annabeth's a bit gun-shy, and she's been through a lot." She looked at him again, and an understanding passed between them. "Tread carefully, Bruce. Women are never easy to handle…but then, I don't think you're a walk in the park either. Annabeth deserves to be happy, even though she does her damndest to avoid it."

"Is this where you tell me to treat her like gold, or you'll kill me?" Bruce meant it as a joke, but it fell flat. Donna frowned.

"I consider Annabeth family," she said slowly. "Annabeth doesn't let many people get close, so when she does, you really should accept it as the profound gesture of trust that it is. None of us want to see her hurt—but pain and hurt are inevitable parts of life, so I won't tell you not to hurt her. But I _will_ tell you that if you don't intend to stick around, you'd better get out now. You've got a reputation, Bruce…" she waited for him to contradict and protest the vindictiveness of paparazzi and slighted socialites, but when Bruce didn't say anything, she continued on. "And maybe it's undeserved. I give you the benefit of the doubt, and Annabeth is giving you her trust. Don't abuse it."

The blunt honesty of Donna's statement required a response along with a similar vein from Bruce, but he didn't reply immediately. Instead, he turned away from Donna's penetrating eyes and allowed himself a moment to marshall his thoughts together. As he did, he thought of Annabeth, recalling how reserved, how cautious she had been when he had first met her, and how she had finally warmed and opened up to him as the weeks had passed. He thought of the emotions she provoked within him, and then he thought of the mystery and the danger surrounding her, and he knew that he couldn't just walk away. Not now—not yet. "Annabeth is a gem," he said quietly, "and I want to keep seeing her. I want to see where this goes."

It was a simple statement, not particularly reassuring, but it was enough for Donna, who nodded. "I think you're good for her, you know? She's far too serious. She needs more fun, and you seem to bring that to her."

The serious aspect of their conversation had passed, for which Bruce was quite grateful. So much of his life was based around dissembling and deception, but it didn't mean that he enjoyed it. "Speaking of, where is Annabeth?" He checked his watch. "Isn't she usually here by now?"

"Usually," Donna agreed. "Sorry to disappoint you, Romeo, but she's coming in late today, on my orders. She was here until ten last night, and ten bucks says that once she got home, she was awake for another five hours."

"Have things been crazy around here?" Bruce asked casually, trying very hard to hide his interest. Donna must have been fooled, because her answer was equally off-handed.

"New client came in recently, when I was taking an admin day. Annabeth processed her, and now the girl won't talk to anyone but Annabeth. She's a hard one—young, and good god, the mouth on her!"

"Sounds like a handful."

"God, you have no idea. She's just a kid, after all, and she must have been through something rough. Annabeth's counseling her, and that's why she was here late last night. Anyway, she'll be in later…" Donna flicked her eyes over at Bruce. "So you'll have to find some other way to keep yourself busy until she shows up. Judging by those blueprints, you'll not be bored."

"No, he won't," a new voice chimed in. Bruce turned around to see Annabeth standing in the doorway, looking much the worse for wear. Despite her bedraggled appearance, however, she offered both her boss and Bruce a genuine smile. "Good morning."

"Annabeth." Donna's voice sounded sharp and loud in the small office. "You should be at home, sleeping. I told you not to come in until after lunch."

As was so often the case, sleep had not come to Annabeth, and everyone in the room knew it. Annabeth didn't even bother to explain herself; merely shrugged and tried to look blasé about it. "No matter. I figured I may as well come in and get some work done, see how the new girl is doing."

"Quiet, thank god," Donna told her. "I don't know why she's so attached to you, but I guess you're doing something right." The two women smiled at each other; both knew that Donna had long ago learned Annabeth's value. "But christ, Annabeth, you're working too damned much. You're killing yourself." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bruce nodding fervently in agreement, and then she noticed that he had casually placed his hand on the copy of the _Gazette _he had brought in that morning. Donna had already read it, but had brought in her own copy specifically to tease Annabeth with it. And here was Bruce, trying to remind her. "As it happens, it _does _sound like you're going to be taking some vacation time, though, aren't you?"

"Eh?" Annabeth looked blankly at Donna, and then at Bruce, who smiled knowingly. "What are you talking about?" Her confusion grew as Donna and Bruce began to look conspiratorial. "I'm not going on any vacations."

"Good thing there's always the _Gazette _to help her keep her schedule straight," Donna muttered to Bruce. "Didn't you read the paper today, Annabeth?" She picked up the newspaper and waved it gleefully.

Annabeth looked disgusted. "I'm boycotting the _Gazette. _It's nothing more than a waste of trees."

Donna passed the paper to Bruce, who reached over and offered it to Annabeth. With visible reluctance, she accepted it, but not before giving him a look meant for him alone. It was a shy look, but one that clearly told him she was happy to see him. He almost wanted to take back the _Gazette _after she read it,because that look certainly wouldn't be lingering for long. Bruce and Donna watched, he in apprehension and she with barely suppressed glee, as she read the society section, her brow furrowed in confusion. And then—

"Oh, _shit!" _she blurted, and there was such dismay in her voice that both Bruce and Donna couldn't help but to laugh.

"Sounds like you're taking a long weekend, Annabeth," Donna chortled. "It's about time, too. But why didn't you tell me sooner? Now I've got to re-arrange the coverage."

"I'm sorry," Annabeth apologized, and she knew she'd probably be saying that all day. "I completely forgot—Elisa asked me ages ago, I think—I can't even remember when…" But then she did remember: at the last fundraiser, when she had been so annoyed and annoying, and had tippled more champagne than any decent woman should have a right to. "Ah…well, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

The expression of guilt that crept into Annabeth's face was one Donna had long ago learned to recognize, and she nodded sagely. "Annabeth, the best advice I can give you is this: when you're drinking, and you think something seems like a good idea, it's probably_a very bad idea."_

That moment appeared to be a good time for Bruce to add his two cents' worth. "It's not a bad idea," he told them, "except for the part where you _forgot. _How much did you have to drink that night? No, don't answer that. Anyway, never mind. You'll have a great time! And Elisa's really excited to have you attend the wedding, she's got so few people representing her as it is. Don't back out, Annabeth…if you don't come, I'm going to be mauled and compromised by every single woman there."

"I don't think Annabeth's presence will do much to prevent that from happening," Donna interjected. "But I think you should go, Annabeth. You need a break."

The three of them had been at this routine long enough for Annabeth to anticipate the outcome; Donna and Bruce would take turns wheedling, coaxing, and guilting her, and she would eventually capitulate. No doubt she'd save a great deal of time if she just acquiesced more readily, so Annabeth shrugged. "Okay, fine. I'll go." With some relish, she watched the surprise cross their faces, but Bruce, at least recovered quickly.

"Great." He actually seemed to bounce in his seat for a moment. "You can ride up with Alfred and me. We leave first thing Friday morning."

"You _and _your butler?" Donna couldn't resist questioning.

"Alfred goes everywhere with me, if I can help it." Bruce said seriously. "He's like a security blanket."

The bemusement on Donna's face was a sight to behold, but Annabeth had no time for that. "What do I need to bring to this…thing, this house party? A tea-gown? Jodphurs and boots?" A look of terror crossed her features. "There won't be horseback riding, will there?"

Bruce considered for a moment. "Maybe, but it's not mandatory. Tell you what: why don't you join me for lunch today? I'm taking Elisa out, to get her mind off the wedding. She'd love to see you, and you can get a better idea of what all you should expect."

By her hesitation, both Donna and Bruce could tell that Annabeth was struggling to find a way to turn his invitation down. No matter how much she was coming to care for Bruce, Annabeth was first and foremost a neurotic workaholic, and they just knew that she was contemplating all the work that she could do, holed up in her office and safely away from the distractions that Bruce seemed so happy to throw in her path at every opportunity.

To avoid that likelihood, Donna didn't give her a chance to answer. "Annabeth, go to lunch with Bruce. Otherwise you probably won't eat until five o'clock this evening. And I'll overlook the fact that you disregarded my orders to come in later." She smiled triumphantly, and even Bruce looked smug. Annabeth pulled a face at both of them. "Do you two always join forces to best me?"

Donna decided it was time to shoo them both from her office; she needed to get real work done and spend less time facilitating the love life of her best—but most emotionally-stunted—employee. "Not to best you. Just to annoy you. Now, both of you, leave. Bruce, why don't you spend the rest of the morning telling Annabeth how, exactly, you propose we bring a police branch into the Narrows?"

* * *

Shortly after noon on that same day, the sleek, silver Rolls-Royce glided to a smooth stop in front of Safe Haven, pulling neatly into a spot on the curb that always seem to appear through magic or luck when one got behind the wheels of such a luxury vehicle. Alfred had arrived to pick up Bruce and Annabeth, but they had not yet emerged from the building, and so, Alfred had nothing to do but wait. He had long ago honed this talent down to an art form, and so letting the car idle and his mind drift was no trying task. There was always more work to be done. Just earlier that morning, Lucius Fox had couriered over a package containing extensive documents, ready for them to peruse, and the package now sat on the slick leather passenger seat, offering Alfred a silent rebuke for his wool-gathering. Today, however, Alfred would not be guilted into immediately investigating; today he felt a contemplative mood approaching, and he was willing to indulge in it. And so he sat, quietly, thoughtfully, gazing out the tinted, bullet-proof glass windows at the surroundings beyond the vehicle.

It was a quintessential Gotham scene-improbable prosperity abutting heart-rending poverty. Safe Haven was merely one thriving building on a street of many, each housing homes and businesses in older, elegant, slightly-worn looking brownstones. There was money here, and endurance, and gentility, as evidenced by the well-maintained sidewalks and buildings, the brass fixtures, the gleaming windows, the window boxes—now barren—which held brilliantly-colored flowers in the springtime. But even here, on these well-manicured sidewalks, there was poverty; from where he sat, Alfred could see three people up and down the street, obviously homeless, staring out through eyes dulled by hopelessness and the casual rejection of a largely indifferent society.

In fact, just right by the Rolls, directly in front of Safe Haven, was one such person, sitting very quietly on a bench. At first, Alfred had a difficult time even discerning the person's gender, but after a moment's intense scrutiny, he was able to ascertain that it was a man. What really caught Alfred's attention was the activity in which the man was currently engaged-he was shuffling through a handful of photographs, pausing a moment to look at each one before moving on to the next. The quiet poignancy of it twisted Alfred's heart; it reminded him that this man, too, was a human, just like Alfred, that he, too, had had some sort of life, perhaps a very happy life, before his current homeless state. Who was this man? How had he come to be here? There had to be someone, somewhere, who cared about him. Perhaps the people in those pictures wondered where he was now...it was so easy to turn the homeless into something "other", something completely dehumanized and irrelevant, and here was the only proof one needed to know that they were more than their current circumstances reflected. But who bothered to see through that?

Just as Alfred had made the decision to exit the car and speak to the man, he saw Bruce and Annabeth emerge from Safe Haven. They hurried down the steps to the street, and as they did, Bruce leaned in and said something to Annabeth—no doubt something casual, flippant, or unexpectedly charming—that made her smile up at him, and the look with which she regarded Bruce revealed to Alfred just how strongly Annabeth felt about him. There was a sparkle in her eyes that was quite new, and which positively lit up her normally stern, worried features. Just then, both of them appeared to laugh, and at the same time, a blast of cold wind brought a volley of dead brown leaves rattling down the street towards them. Bruce paused for a moment to carefully tighten the scarf that was draped about Annabeth's neck, and then they continued down the steps, approaching both the car and the homeless man sitting right by it.

Instinctively, Bruce paused, knowing Annabeth would do the same, and with consummate tact, he hung back and observed as she knelt down beside the man. They spoke for just a moment, but it was a long enough moment for Annabeth to hand the man a business card, and after glancing at the cloudy sky and noting the rising wind, unwind the scarf Bruce had so recently adjusted. She placed the scarf around the man's shoulders, and with a final smile, rejoined Bruce's side. So absorbed had Annabeth been in tending to the man, she didn't notice the thoughtful look on Bruce's face.

* * *

Outside, another arctic cold front approached, one that would chase away all remnants of autumn, but inside the dark, regal British pub to which Bruce had brought Annabeth, all was warm and cozy. A sour-faced waitress had seated them in a tiny table close to the massive fireplace, and Annabeth was grateful for the warmth that the crackling blaze provided. As they waited for Elisa and Bradford to arrive, Annabeth studied her surroundings and Bruce studied Annabeth. She gazed about, her eyes bright with curiosity as she examined the paneled walls lined with vintage British war propaganda and various photographs of royal personages. The cold wind had brought some color into her normally pale cheeks, and Bruce found her appearance charming and distracting. Even more distracting than her appearance, however, was the propaganda poster underneath which Annabeth had unknowingly seated herself: it bore a fancily-dressed skull and warned that"The easy girlfriend spreads syphilis and gonorrhea, which unless properly treated may result in blindness, insanity, paralysis, premature death."

Bruce silently prayed that the poster would not come to her attention.

"Why isn't Alfred joining us?" Annabeth asked suddenly. She looked over at the Englishman, discreetly seated a few tables over, along with a large pile of papers. "And what on earth is he reading?"

"Uuuuuh...Alfred helps out with the business. He has work to do...and he likes to maintain a discreet distance." Bruce waved his hand dismissively. "It's some weird British thing that he does. He explained it once, but I wasn't listening."

_Well, at least he's honest about it,_ Annabeth thought to herself. Since meeting Bruce, she had come to discover a deeper side of him, but she knew the flippant, casual playboy was still there, and emerged from time to time. She was coming to accept, if not understand, just as he was likely coming to accept her own prickly personality.

The pub doors swung open, and along with a blast of chilly air, tiny Elisa and beefy Bradford swept into the pub. After a moment in which their eyes adjusted to the dim light, Elisa caught sight of them and made a beeline for their table, Bradford ambling more sedately behind. "Bruce!" Elisa exclaimed as she launched herself onto him, not giving him a chance to rise from his seat before she hugged him. "Thank god you invited us out! Bradford's mother was trying to talk me into a _sushi bar_ at the reception!"

Laughing, Bruce returned the hug, feeling Elisa's wiry energy in her muscular arms. "There's still a few days left...sure you want to go through with this?" He winked at Bradford, who grinned good-naturedly as he seated himself at their tiny table.

Elisa sat down, too, giving Bradford a private, almost worshipful look as she did. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Watching Elisa and Bradford interact was a soothing thing for Annabeth; in her personal life and in her profession, she had seen so few functional, healthy relationships that it was easy to forget that such a thing did exist. But here, with this couple, there was a reminder: Bradford and Elisa had forged a substantial partnership based on mutual interests and sympathies, and were obviously well-matched in personalities and temperaments. And they loved each other, deeply and profoundly and perhaps even spiritually; it was evident in every look and exchange that passed between them.

The first time Annabeth observed it, just as Bradford said something inane and goofy and Elisa had laughed and squeezed his hand in response, it almost took her breath away. She hadn't expected to be confronted with such beauty on a mundane weekday afternoon, and so wasn't prepared for its profundity. She almost wanted to weep at the unexpected joy, and then with grief at the absence of it in her own life. But then she caught Bruce throwing her a look of curiosity, and re-arranged her expression into one of bland pleasantness. Damned if she'd let Bruce Wayne see what a sap she was becoming! Besides, to hear her girlfriends tell of it, the second she displayed an ounce of serious sentimentality, he'd do a runner. Of course, Bruce Wayne seemed to enjoy defying all of her expectations.

The unsmiling waitress returned to take their drink orders, and whatever the woman's personality lacked, she made up for in efficiency: soon Bruce and Bradford were each served with a lager, Elisa with a cider, and Annabeth with a cup of tea. As she took careful, slow sips of her piping-hot tea, Annabeth listened to Elisa and Bradford go on about the wedding preparations, and watched as Bruce listened with a faintly amused air, for Bradford was the one who was genuinely excited about it, and Elisa merely resigned.

"About three hundred for the wedding on Sunday," Bradford was saying. "And most of them will just be coming in for the wedding, but there'll be about twenty-five or so who'll be there for the whole weekend."

"Still don't know why your mother's insisting on a country-house party," Elisa interjected. "It seems so..._silly. _Formal dinners and high teas and god only knows what else. It's not England, you know."

"Don't tell my mother that," Bradford grinned good-naturedly. All his life he had been accustomed to being shuffled and ordered about by strong-willed women; first his mother, and now he was changing his allegiance to Elisa. It was what he knew, and what he was most comfortable with. "She likes to fancy she's good old-fashioned aristocracy. As if planning the wedding weren't enough, she's spent the last ten days making sure the house is cleaned, ordering in more food, hiring extra help, planning dinners, making sure there are enough bedrooms for all the weekend guests she's invited."

The word "bedrooms" gave Annabeth pause; _oh, dear, _she thought with a vague sense of alarm. _How did I not see this coming?_

Seeing Annabeth's suddenly worried expression and completely misinterpreting the reason for it, Elisa hastened to reassure her. "Oh, don't worry, we made sure there would be enough room for you and Bruce! We're giving you two one of the nicest bedrooms!"

"Two, please."

Three pairs of eyes turned their focus to Bruce; a few tables over, Alfred had turned his attention towards Bruce, as well. Bruce sat there, calmly, not giving any indication that his request was at all out of the ordinary. Annabeth, particularly, looked nonplussed; Elisa startled; Bradford merely bemused.

Elisa recovered first. "Pardon?"

"Two bedrooms, if it's at all possible." Bruce smiled apologetically. "I suppose it's making more work for all of you, but I really must insist. I'm an old-fashioned guy, and I believe in at least the _appearance _of propriety."

Bradford had been in the moment of taking a hefty swig of lager, but at this comment from Bruce, he promptly snorted with suppressed laughter, choked, and spat his lager back into his glass. Meanwhile, it was clear that Elisa was uncertain as to whether or not Bruce was joking. "I don't think you need to worry about keeping up appearances...this is a fairly modern crowd coming this weekend, and you won't be the only unmarried couple."

Bruce shrugged. "All the same, I think it's best this way." Almost casually, he stretched out his hand and placed it on top of Annabeth's, giving it one firm, reassuring squeeze. It did nothing to smooth down her tangle of thoughts, but it at least reminded her that Bruce had his own set of social graces. She was fairly certain he had anticipated the question of bedrooms and directed it in such a way that she would feel no pressure or questions about his intentions for the weekend.

To alleviate the awkwardness, she attempted to redirect the conversation into less murky waters. "Care to give me an idea about what I should wear this weekend?"

Eagerly, Elisa seized upon this opportunity. "Well, do you have any parkas? It's a beautiful house, but it's really old, and it's not like there's any central heating..."

It had started off as one of the stranger lunches Annabeth had ever attended, but developed and ended up normally enough. After Bruce and Alfred dropped her back off at Safe Haven, Annabeth immediately retired to the solitude of her office, where she could reflect upon the lunch in peace. This was not to be, however, for as she slung her coat over her chair, she caught a glimpse of the stack of mail that Maya had placed on her desk. Underneath a couple of bills, she saw the tattered edge of a post card, and with an unhappy sense of recognition, she tugged the post card out of the pile and stared at the ominous handwriting.

Within seconds, Annabeth was dialing Commissioner Gordon's number, her hands shaking as she did. When she heard his reassuring, steady voice answer on the second ring, she allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief. "I think I've got some information you might like, Commissioner," she heard herself saying, and marveled at her calm voice. "I think we have a mutual friend who will want to know about this."


	28. Chapter 28

On certain autumn and winter nights, Gotham City could be a very inhospitable place, its ruthless cold extending icy claws and attempting to gouge anyone who was foolhardy to be out and about after the final, feeble rays of sunlight had relinquished their tenuous hold. However, no residents of Gotham City suffered from the cold the way they did down at the Naval Tricorner Yards. Located at the southern tip of the island, the Naval Yards was actually an even smaller island, and there was something unfortunate about the geography that subjected the little island, and all its inhabitants, to cruel and icy winter, blowing off the river.

It was one of the factors which accounted for the relative affordability of the real estate of the Naval Yards; back in the summer time, when Gordon and his wife had made the decision to purchase the house there, it was a warm and sunny day, full of heady promise. Neither of them had guessed at the geographical disadvantage, and so they made their purchase and their move, blissfully oblivious to the moaning, biting winds and the astronomical electricity and gas bills which would be their constant companion throughout the winter months.

None of this fazed Barbara Gordon, Jr., in the slightest. She had spent most of her life in cold climes, so the temperatures were nothing extraordinary for her. More than that, however, she took a perverse pride in embracing physical discomfort and inuring herself to the elements. This, perhaps, explained her presence on the terrace of Jim Gordon's home at eleven o'clock that night, seemingly indifferent to the fact that the thermometer was hovering at a mere two degrees above freezing. Of course, another possible explanation for her presence could have been the clearly-audible sounds of temper tantrums emanating from inside the Gordons' house; despite the fact that no doors or windows were open, the sounds of whining, shouting, and the occasional wail drifted out. It was Jim Gordon's night at home with his children, and he was learning just how poorly the Gordon household was adjusting to the sudden changes that had come about in recent weeks.

Barbara sat at the picnic table Jim had built earlier that year, just after he and his wife—Barbara's adoptive mother, although they had never warmed to each other—and the younger Gordon children had moved in. Barbara had still been in Chicago then, and when she had finally come out to visit and see the new house, she had been shocked by the changes in her family. Her father had appeared more careworn and harassed than ever, her little brother and sister strangely withdrawn, her mother listless and angry. There hadn't been any choice for her; when her father had called her last month, Barbara knew she would have to move back home and help. Thank god Gotham University had been so eager to work with her—it was no mean feat for a PhD student to just up and switch from one school's program to another. Not that she would ever give her newly-adopted University grounds to regret their generosity; at twenty-five, she was a bit of a novelty, one of the youngest PhD candidates in the university, and even now, Barbara had her books and notes scattered out before her on the picnic table, trying to formulate some research ideas for her Information Visualization Research Practicum. To lubricate the process, she had by her left hand a tall glass of white wine, the cheapest Chardonnay she could find, and in her right hand she clutched a half-smoked Clove cigarette. Between the wine, the cigarette, and the wool coat and scarf she had wrapped herself in, she was weathering the cold quite well.

Idly, she jotted down a few more notes on her legal pad, and then, not bothering to look up from her book—an out-of-print tome she had had a bitch of a time locating—she said into the darkness, "Aren't you done staring yet? I imagine you're a pretty busy fellow."

With satisfaction, Barbara noted that she had been correct in trusting her senses—she looked up and stared hard into the shadows at the edge of their walled back yard, and smiled as the dark, hulking figure came into view. Given that his face was hidden with a mask, it was impossible to tell whether or not he had been surprised that she had detected his presence, but Barbara guessed it didn't make a difference, regardless.

"Well, well, well, " she said. "The rumors are true. You exist. And you're chummy with Dad." As she said this, she took a deep drag on her cigarette and eyed the legendary Batman.

He moved slightly closer to her. Already he could tell that intimidation was pointless. "That's a filthy habit," was his only response.

Barbara exhaled her smoke, deliberately blowing it into his direction; a stiff blast of cold wind did the rest. Only then did she answer. "I'm a filthy girl." As she said this, she cocked her head to one side, considering the man who stood before her, and the movement caused her silver nose ring to glint in the weak porch light. "I thought you'd be taller."

With that, she turned back to her notes.

A few more moments passed; the Batman did not move from where he stood, and finally, Barbara sighed and looked up again. "What?"

"I need to speak with Gordon." He growled this statement in as gravelly a voice as possible.

"Back where I come from, a _real _superhero says 'please'," Barbara retorted. "Were you raised in a barn or something?" Seeing that this rebuke wasn't going to elicit from him any manners, Barbara gave in gracefully. With unhurried ease, she rose from her seat and ambled over to the sliding glass door. She opened it, and bellowed into the house, "Dad! Can you come down here a sec?"

"In a minute!" came the distant reply, followed by a bellow of childish protest.

She turned back to the Batman and explained, "It's his night with Jimmy and Hannah. They don't like going to bed."

He didn't respond; really, what was there to say? Fortunately, Barbara Gordon did not appear to expect a response. She was quite happy to lean against the house, finish up her cigarette, and cast an occasional amused glance at the Batman. No doubt he was aware of her scrutiny; he was conducting an examination of his own. After a moment in which they both engaged in a staring contest, Barbara caved first. "So what's with the black? Are you into some sort of S&M thing?" She let her eyes travel down his torso, lingering suggestively at his utility belt. "You got some cuffs in there?" Seeing that he wasn't reacting to her provocative words, Barbara shrugged. "You're totally a dom. I'd bet anything on it."

While the Batman evinced no outward reaction, inwardly her irreverence had rattled him somewhat. If Alfred had been there to witness this, the Batman was fairly certain he would be equally appalled and amused. How on earth had Jim Gordon ever reared anyone as absurdly offbeat as Barbara Gordon? According to what he had read on her, Barbara was twenty-five, but the way she prattled on and tried to provoke him reminded him of a mischievous adolescent.

The glass door slid open again, and Jim Gordon stepped onto the terrace, only to stop short as he took in the Batman standing there. "You're early."

"I heard I had the chance to be a circus sideshow."

Jim glanced at Barbara, who grinned at him, unabashed. "What? He's a novelty." Still, she took hints readily enough from her father and ambled back over to the picnic table, where she stubbed out her butt, finished off her glass of wine, and began to gather her notes. "I'm heading out, Daddy. It's late, but I managed to get a last-minute hot date tonight."

"Is this Benjamin, again? The nice guy with a moustache?"

"Nope. This one's Becky—the cute girl from my data-mining class. I've been eyeing her for a week now." Barbara kissed Gordon's cheek. "Don't wait up, I might be out all night." She turned back to the Batman. "'Bye, cutie. Nice talking _at _you." As she stood in the doorway, the light from inside the house cast her tall, skinny figure in relief and made her short, spiky, auburn hair glow a little weirdly…and then she was gone.

In her absence, there was a curious emptiness. Barbara Gordon Jr., it seemed, was a larger-than-life type character, vital and flamboyant in her energies and charisma. It was not unpleasing, actually, but Gordon nonetheless looked distinctly uncomfortable. "My oldest girl can be a bit much at first," he explained. "She actually idolizes you. Does all sorts of research on you; when she moved in, she immediately set up a little archives project in the basement. God help the library that that ends up hiring her." Any further words were drowned out as the rumble of a revving motorcycle engine roared out into the clear, cold night. Gordon knew the Batman had to be looking askance at him, and merely shrugged in resignation. "At least she wears a helmet."

The Batman was eager to divert the conversation away from the disconcerting subject of Barbara Gordon. "You called today. What do you have for me?"

"Our friend Annabeth de Burgh. It seems she's been given some very useful information from a source—the same one that you both met before." Gordon pulled a postcard from his jacket pocket, where it had been since Annabeth had brought it to him earlier that afternoon. He had gotten the sense she was only too happy to relinquish possession of it; such a weighty responsibility was not one she had either solicited or relished, and accordingly, it did not rest easily on her shoulders. She was a social worker, she had explained to Gordon with tremendous agitation, not a detective, not a crime-fighter, not a shadowy go-between.

None of this Gordon bothered to explain to the Batman—he sensed that it was at least irrelevant; Annabeth had been caught up into all of this, and extricating herself at this awkward stage was out of the question. It had most likely been a situation into which she would not have knowingly placed herself—Gordon could relate to that, of course. But at least none of them were fighting this battle completely alone.

Impassive as always, the Batman studied the postcard

_Donzetti out of country completing unknown transaction. Chechens involved. Boy-o killed again and is out of favor. He's in hiding—get to him before the Arrows do and you can maybe finish this._

Gordon sighed. "It's not a lot to go on. And if Donzetti's out of the country, we'll have to bring in the Feds. There's no way we can't—we need them to investigate his flights, monitor his passport and overseas monetary transactions. This just gets more complicated."

Oddly, the Batman didn't share his negativity. "No. Get the Feds involved. Call them now—tell them to start focusing on Central and Eastern Europe, start analyzing human trafficking patterns for those regions."

"You seem awfully eager to get them involved," Gordon remarked, surprised.

The Batman actually grinned, a feral, superior smile that gleamed in the dark. "Not _involve_," he explained. _"Distract_. We need to find out what's going on overseas, anyway, so get them to do that while we work the domestic front—flush out this Boy-o guy, get him to talk, implicate as many of the Arrows as we can."

"A fine idea," Gordon said dryly. "Except—we have to _find _Boy-o, first."

"Not a problem." The Batman had decided that he had lingered long enough; already he was thinking ahead to how to find Boy-o, and so was eager to be moving on. "Leave it to me to flush him out." He turned away, but paused to say one final thing over his shoulder: "Keep an eye on your daughter. She's going to run circles around you."

"She's twenty-five years old," Gordon pointed out. "She can run just about anywhere she wants. I'd say you're the one that needs to worry."

And indeed, as the Batman melted into the night, Barbara Gordon was watching from a set of shadows all her own.

* * *

Flushing out Boy-o turned out to be one of the easier tasks the Batman had encountered; it was merely a matter of spending a few hours in the Narrows, talking with various contacts, squealers, and more or less helpful criminals. Soon enough, the Batman acquired the information he needed; unsurprisingly, confirmation came from one of his most reliable sources.

"I've got a hunch," Maggie McCormick confirmed, her voice more hoarse and gravelly than ever. She had not sacrificed cigarettes from her life since the last time she had encountered the Batman. "A few people have been talking. There's been more prostitutes down near this end of the Narrows the last few days." She shivered, but it was from the biting cold, and not fear. Maggie McCormick stopped scaring easily years ago, and now it would take more than a skinny, homicidal freakshow _or _a giant man with a bat fetish to unnerve her. "Can't you visit me _inside _the pub? It's fucking _freezing _out here."

The Batman ignored her admonishment. "What have you heard?"

"More like what I've observed. Like I said, lately we got more hookers down near this part of the Narrows—which means they're avoiding another part of the Narrows. A couple of them said something about wanting to stay away from Wharfside—my guess is that's where that guy is at. Word is that he's no longer one of the Arrow's Golden Boys."

"Wharfside? But that's where he killed last."

Maggie shrugged and lit a cigarette. "He's creepy as hell, and mean as hell, but at the end of the day, probably dumb as hell, too. Or maybe he's smart—probably knows Wharfside better than any area, and so that's why he's there."

It was all the useful information he was going to get from Maggie, but he felt compelled to linger for a moment longer. There was something earthy and hard and real about Maggie—not unlike Annabeth, really—that gave the Batman pause. She stood there now, barely visible in the dim alley light, shivering in the cold. She was a good woman, an honest woman, and for that reason alone, her presence was a silent, comforting benediction.

As he prepared to depart, Maggie offered some final, wise words. "Don't underestimate that freak show. If he knows that area, he's going to work it to his advantage." But even as she spoke, she knew she was talking to empty air—the Batman had left again. But she still suspected he had heard.

* * *

_Luck _was not a concept that the Batman liked to rely upon. Luck was a generous yet capricious mistress—for he knew that it would be luck that one day turned the tables around, that would end his life, or at least his career, in some fight gone wrong. It was luck that allowed so many criminals and pedophiles and punks and gang-bangers to roam free, night after night. No, he didn't care for luck—give him the steadfast predictability of facts, of reliable situations and behaviors and sources and equipment, any day of the week.

But luck was with him this night—he descended into Wharfside fully expecting to come out empty-handed. Wharfside was big enough—and shadowy enough, and filled with enough abandoned warehouses and alleys and dead ends—to swallow some one like Boy-o, someone crafty and survival-oriented at all costs, and never spit him out again. The Batman fully expected that this would be the first of many nights spent searching, investigating, or sniffing him out—but luck had something else in mind.

There were still two hours to go before another cold, grey day dawned upon the city. He had spent the last half hour perched on the roof of a nineteenth-century factory, observing the streets below and occasionally walking the perimeter of the roof , attempting to bring a little more warmth into his cold-stiffened limbs. His suit may have been thermal, but it certainly didn't have a heater built into it.

It was during one of these rounds on the roof when a muffled noise caught his attention. Peering into the darkness of the sidewalks below, he saw two figures—most likely female—hurrying past, looking as though they were not eager to linger overly-long. Few enough people were willing to be out and about in this part of the Narrows at this time of night, so chances were these two were prostitutes, and desperate ones at that.

_Just the type he wanted to talk to._

The poor women nearly had heart attacks as the massive figure appeared suddenly in front of them, blocking their way. One of the woman—a few years older than her companion—squeaked in terror, the other, younger girl merely inhaled sharply—but both of them stopped short and immediately began searching for an escape route, or failing that, help. Neither was particularly likely.

"Don't be scared," he told them. "I need information, and then I'm gone."

The older woman stared at him, mute with terror, but the younger one was a little bit more quick-witted, or at least a little more prone to bravado. "What are you willing to pay?" she demanded. She was barely eighteen, or perhaps not even, and the profession she had chosen had not yet diminished the youth and the look of innocence about her, which was no doubt something many of her clients were paying for.

"Depends on what you know. You two know who Boy-o is?"

They knew, alright. The looks of fear in their eyes were instantaneous—most likely they had had personal contact with him at some point; most likely he had done his best to cow them into submission. Now that he had gone to ground, he may not have the same hold over Gotham's sex industry, but no doubt the fear of him was still a potent thing.

The younger one took her time in answering. "Yeah, we know who he is. Bastard knifed Edie here last month." She jerked her head towards her companion. "I think he gets off on pain." The expression she was regarding the Batman with seemed to indicate that she considered him of the same ilk.

"You know where he is now?"

The two women glanced at each other. Boy-o or the Batman, which would they help?

It was a short struggle, at least for Edie. For the first time, she spoke up, and her voice had a low, sweetly feminine tone to it, surprising when considered against its hardened, rough source. "We think he's about six blocks that way." She gestured towards the north. "One of the other girls was talking about him—said she heard from one of her johns that he had seen him in one of the bars up that way. Dude keeps that up, he's gonna get caught."

"You gonna try to catch him, brother?" the younger girl demanded. She stared at him, her eyes issuing a challenge, but holding no hope. She had heard the rumors about the Batman, like everyone had, but to her, he was just another man—if he wasn't one of the ones who was deliberately trying to keep her down, he was one of the ones who stood passively by. Still, seeing him for the first time, having confirmation that he was an actual, real entity, jerked her out of her normal cynical nature. The challenge in her eyes was almost more of a plea.

"I'm going to catch him, sister," he responded. "And swing by Maggie McCormick's tavern. I'll make sure she has payment for you." He looked at them for a moment longer, took in their skinny, under-nourished frames, their lack of warm clothes, their carefully-made-up faces not concealing the misery and weariness that dogged them both. The Arrows and Boy-o had been bad for their business—and yet, the Batman suspected that even after they removed the threats that the Arrow posed, these two women would not experience any vast improvement.

_One battle at a time._

* * *

It wasn't far away, the area of the Narrows the women had pointed him to, but he took the Tumbler—if he happened to capture Boy-o and get the cops on the scene, he'd need to have the means for a speedy getaway. And so he drove there, the Tumbler set to "stealth" mode as it silently wove its way through the darkened alleyways.

And then…the hunt really began. Not wishing to involve any more prostitutes in his quest—after all, they could face repercussions if it got out to the wrong people that they willingly gave up Boy-o, and by extension, the Arrows—he expanded his research to the questioning of several homeless people. It had been his experience that if they were lucid, the prodigious homeless population of Gotham was a valuable source of information. And when offered the right inducement, they readily parted with their information. At the rate he was offering payment for good information, Maggie McCormick was going to find herself working an unwanted day job as a beer-scented bank teller.

But he was also going to provide the Gotham City PD with a very nice catch, indeed. After verifying from two independent sources the alleged hideout of Boy-o, the Batman felt confident enough to move in for the kill. And not a moment too soon—a glance at the eastern sky told him he had no more than an hour to make this happen, before another day dawned. As he began to search the decrepit, abandoned flophouse where Boy-o had reputedly gone to ground, there was a sense of urgency driving him on, not one that he particularly liked—Bruce Wayne was leaving town for the weekend, and he wanted to get this wrapped up before then. Let the Gotham Police question Boy-o all weekend while Bruce Wayne put in some face-time with the Gotham elite…and his girlfriend.

It was this thought which went through his head just before the heart-stopping moment in which a volley of gunshots shattered the silence. The gunfire originated from the floor below, and as the bullets blasted through, the rotting floorboards under his feet splintered and began to give way. The remaining wood could not support his weight, and so he went crashing through to the floor below, falling down in a shower of wood, plaster, and metal. He landed on his back, and on a pile of cement blocks. While his armor was designed to protect his body from any major impact, it certainly didn't provide a cushy landing. One particularly heavy wood beam struck his titanium-reinforced cowl, and while he was protected from the worst of the blows, he was still dazed, his vision momentarily muddled. By the time he had regained focus, the lanky figure of Boy-o was almost upon him.

From his prone position, the Batman struck out with his boot, catching Boy-o's feet and knocking them out from under him. As Boy-o fell, the gun he was gripping went off again, fortunately missing the Batman by several feet.

The Batman regained his feet just as Boy-o, too, was struggling to his. As he stood upright, Boy-o pointed the gun again at the Batman and fired once more. He was only six feet away, and there was no time to reac; the deafening blast of the gun was startling enough, and even more startling than that was the impact: the force of the gunshot threw the Batman backwards and temporarily immobilized him. The blast didn't knock him off his feet, but the unexpected pain did. The Kevlar and armor had held together, and the bullet had not penetrated; nonetheless, a debilitating pain spiderwebbed outwards from his sternum, and the wind was knocked out of him.

Boy-o was a sharp one, after all—he recovered immediately from the surprise of seeing that the Batman hadn't been felled by a bullet, and he advanced to finish the job. So intent was he on this that he didn't see the tall, thin shadow move behind him and didn't sense the person landing on him like a ton of bricks until after he was brought down.

Barbara Gordon had timed her move well—she didn't have much but the element of surprise and her fighting skills, somewhat rusty after being out of the police force for two years—and she was almost amazed to see that her ambush of the Boy-o worked. He fell face forward under the unexpected assault of her weight, and before he could recover, she had knocked him unconscious with a well-placed knock to the head.

"Handcuffs!" she hissed at the Batman.

It had been shock and trauma which had taken his capacity to breathe; now it was shock which brought it back. "What the hell are you doing here?" he croaked as he struggled to sit up.

_"Handcuffs!" _she snapped again. "Or are we just _playing_ at cops and robbers_?"_ She glared at him fiercely, but concern began to creep in as she saw his slow movements. Settling herself onto the unconscious Boy-o—her knee driven deep into his back—she began to dig around for her cell phone. She dialed 911, noticing with cool detachment as she did that her hands were shaking, and barked, "Suspected murderer and gangbanger apprehended in the Narrows—third floor of the Old Wharfside flophouse." She snapped her phone shut and saw that the Batman was still on the floor. "Are you hit?"

"No," he rasped. He was groping about in his utility belt for the specially-designed bat-cuffs that Alfred had added a year ago, and when he found them, he tossed them to Barbara.

She smirked. "I _knew_ you were a dom." With the knowledgeable efficiency of an expert, she snapped on the cuffs and left Boy-o lying there. "We've got to get you out of here."

"I can manage." He didn't like how she was taking charge of the situation—former cop or not, Barbara Gordon was a civilian, and the beloved daughter of his most supportive ally. "You need to get out of here."

"Don't worry about me," she said. "I'm covered." She watched as he began to get to his feet, a difficult task, given the pain in his chest and the fact that he had not quite regained his wind. After a moment, she stepped forward and grabbed his arm—noting in surprise the ridges and gauntlets, the smooth armor—and began to try to haul him to his feet. "Come on, buddy, break time's over. You gotta _go."_

If he hadn't felt as though he were about to suffocate, he would have smarted under the humiliation of Barbara Gordon having to help him. It was fortunate that he had other things to occupy his attention as he pulled himself into a standing position with Barbara at his elbow, trying her best to steady him—she was a _pipsqueak, _he thought in dismay, and realized in equal dismay that in his shock, Bruce Wayne's thoughts were mingling with those of the Batman.

"Your car thing nearby?" Barbara demanded.

Not wasting his breath on a response, he touched the control on his belt that would bring the Tumbler to the building, and began to stiffly make his way to the fire escape. But then he paused, glancing back at the inert form of Boy-o. "I shouldn't leave him."

"Like hell," Barbara snapped. "You're hurt. If the cops come and you're still here, you're fucked, royally. I'm keeping an eye on Twinkle-Toes over there, and you've got to get medical help." She eyed his armor, and it was as she studied it that he realized just what damage had been done: the armor had deflected the bullets, but the force of the impact had formed a massive indentation which was pressing inward onto his chest. God only knew what damage there was, and not just to the armor

Barbara kicked out one of the shuttered-windows, and a blast of cold air hit them as the wood gave way once more. She stuck her head out the window and then pulled back in at once. "The fire escape is here, and it looks like your little car is waiting for you down below—" whatever words she was speaking were drowned out as screaming sirens filled the night. Barbara cocked her head, and from the movement of her lips, he could tell what she was saying: "They're coming in the front way. We can get out through the alley."

Below them, a crash echoed through the building as someone kicked in a door. Footsteps, at first cautious, and then more hasty, began to thump up the stairway.

"Go." The Batman said this tersely, but when Barbara didn't move, he bellowed it. "_GO!"_

She was no fool, and swung her legs over the sill and pulled her body out the window onto the escape. After a second, he head the rickety metal rattling as her feet pounded down the steps.

The police were here—there was nothing else he could do to ensure Boy-o was taken into custody. He, too, pulled himself through the window, and swiftly attached a line to the railings. He lowered himself to the Tumbler, which was idling just below the escape, its hatch open, but as he did, he saw Barbara Gordon, still standing in the shadows, watching.

"Why'd you do this?" he demanded, forcing his voice into its normally frightening, commanding timbres, and trying to ignore the pain this action induced.

Barbara approached the Tumbler, trying to mask her intense curiosity at this impressive, complicated piece of machinery. After a moment, she pulled her gaze away from the Tumbler. "Huh?"

"I said, why'd you do this? You could have gotten killed. You could have screwed this up."

Barbara shrugged. "My date stood me up." And then she backed away, turned heel, and ran.

* * *

With all the tenderness of a mother, Alfred assisted Bruce as he peeled away the armor from the top half of the body suit he wore underneath. Even doing this was intensely painful, and as Alfred glanced at Bruce, he noted the clenched jaw, the eyes steely with determination. A lesser man would have passed out by this point, but not Bruce.

He glanced down at his chest. Already the bruising was extensive, a horrific circle of purple and blue with some red mixed in for good measure. He and Alfred were going to have to think of some good excuse for this one—but as he glanced over his shoulder at Alfred, who was tending to his back, it occurred to him that Alfred wouldn't have the time for much other than doctoring him.

"How's it look back there, Alfred?" Bruce asked. He struggled to keep his voice light, but it was difficult—tonight had been an extremely close call, and it was all the more galling that it would have been worse had Gordon's daughter not been there.

Why _had _she been there? When Bruce had first wheezed his story out to Alfred when he arrived at the cave, he had wondered this aloud, but the look Alfred had given him was so deeply distressed, he didn't bother to wonder again. It was obvious that Alfred was thanking their luck—that fickle bitch—that Barbara Gordon had been there at all.

"It looks as though you fought a collapsing brick wall and lost," Alfred snapped. "There's quite a bit of bruising back here." He had forced Bruce onto the examining table as soon as the young man had emerged from the Tumbler, and had been hard at work ever since. Now he paused to dig some cold packs out of the medical supply closet, and began strapping them around Bruce. He hissed with pain as Alfred strapped them around him, and Alfred's hands faltered for a moment. Bruce glanced at Alfred, saw the butler was pale and upset and obviously shaken—and Bruce didn't want Alfred to see how shaken he was, either.

The numbness of the ice packs began to set in, and it momentarily became too much for Bruce. He leaned over the side of the table and vomited, quickly and matter-of-factly, but the strain it placed on his stomach muscles—so close to the bruising—immediately induced another wave of nausea.

"I can't check for internal bruising, Master Wayne," Alfred continued, his tone becoming sharper. Getting angry was better than being frightened. "I suggest we get you to a clinic and get some x-rays and a more thorough examination."

"Once I think of a good excuse for these bruises," Bruce said. "Got any ideas?"

"You tripped—fell down the stairs." The irony was heavy in Alfred's voice. "I'll ready the limo."

But he didn't leave, not right away—he paused to collect the plates of armor, and as he did, he saw Bruce reach for the utility belt, and pluck out the special cell phone. It looked tiny in his enormous paw of a hand. He was dialing a number and a moment later, the Batman's raspy voiced rattled into the cold, damp air.

"_It's me. Did you get him?"_

In terms of results, it had been a very profitable night—Boy-o had been apprehended, and in addition to stemming the flood of violence that had been unfolding against the more unfortunate of Gotham's female population, they would hopefully get plenty of information to implicate various members of the Arrows. But in terms of damage, it had been a very costly night.

Alfred turned away again, and desperately tried to ignore the fear rising within him. He had always had confidence in Master Bruce—had always believed in what he was doing. But now, this night, his confidence was shaken, and he was reminded that Bruce Wayne was mortal. Had it not been for the strange intervention of a meddlesome woman, things could have gone very badly indeed. Master Bruce was clearly rattled at the prospect of Barbara Gordon showing up again—and Alfred was rattled at the prospect that she wouldn't.

"It's him."

Annabeth turned and looked through the one-way viewing window, focusing on the man to which Stacy was pointing. She wasn't the only one looking, Gordon, Detective Montoya, and Ginny Chien—Harvey Dent's replacement as Gotham DA—were also following Stacy's eyes.

"It's him! I swear to god it's him!" Stacy looked frantically from one adult to the other, searching for belief, for trust, for encouragement. "You asked me to come in and look at a lineup, try to point out the guy that killed Vicki, and I _did. _That's him!" She would recognize him anywhere-that tall, lanky frame, that impossibly angelic face, out of which shone one set of very cold, inhuman eyes. He couldn't see her, of course, but she still felt creepy. Even with all these adults, all these allegedly powerful people surrounding her, she felt very vulnerable.

"We believe you," Annabeth soothed her. She placed a protective arm around Stacy's shoulders and noted with surprise that the teenager didn't shrug her away as she had done so many times before. She glanced at Gordon. "This is upsetting her-can we leave now?" It was upsetting her, too. She had planned to spend her Thursday wrapping up loose ends, trying to square away as much business as possible before Bruce whisked her away for the weekend. Instead, as soon as she had arrived at work that morning, she had been greeted by a voicemail from Gordon, informing her that Boy-o had been caught, and that they needed their witness to come down to the MCU for an ID. With that voicemail, Annabeth's plans for the day went to hell in a handbasket, and now she was here at MCU with a sullen teenager. It was a good thing, of course—but inconvenient as all hell. Damned criminals never consulted anyone else's schedule.

Gordon now motioned for Montoya to take charge of the men in the line-up. "We're almost done here. Stacy," he said gently to the frightened girl, "I know this was hard for you, but you picked the right man. We believe you, and I can promise you we're going to do everything we can to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else."

Every adult in the room knew that those words, although uttered with the kindest of intentions, might very well end up being a lie. Even Stacy knew it, apparently, for she didn't look particularly reassured. In fact, the look she gave Gordon was positively withering.

"Okay, we're going to _try." _He gazed down at the girl, doing his best to keep the pity he felt for her under wraps. No one-particularly not streetwise punks who had seen too much of life already-relished being pitied. "We're going to do our best to keep you safe. We've kept you safe so far, haven't we?"

His eyes met those of Annabeth's, and he jerked his head, indicating he wanted a private word. Annabeth gently detached herself from Stacy and huddled in the corner with Gordonl. They talked as low as they could.

"Notice anything suspicious around Safe Haven lately?"

"Nothing." Annabeth frowned, not happy at all with the current situation. "But I'm going to be out of town for a few days...I won't be able to keep an eye on her."

"I can hear you, ya know," Stacy muttered. "I'm not stupid. I'm not going to go running all around the city while you're getting laid by your billionaire boyfriend. I'll stay put and be a good girl."

"Is it too late to ask him to come back and finish the job?" Annabeth grumbled, watching Boy-o's departing back.

Gordon sympathized. He didn't envy Annabeth's job, not for a moment. "Hopefully it will be all over soon. We've still got men keeping an eye on Safe Haven...the most trusted ones only. They haven't noticed anything suspicious, either. Don't worry...your boss notice anything unusual yet?"

"Not yet." Annabeth's pale face crinkled with worry. "Stacy's been too difficult for her to really work with...but she's going to start asking questions soon. And then we'll have to figure out what to do with her...Stacy says she's sixteen, and I suppose we could go for emancipation." Annabeth glanced over at Stacy and saw that she was trying hard to look as though she was not paying attention-and failing miserably. "It's a mess."

"The Feds and Interpol are working on some connections overseas," Gordon said. He chose his words carefully, knowing that he could only reveal so much to a civilian, even one as involved as Annabeth had become. "Hopefully they'll be making some arrests soon. And we're going to push for a swift arraignment of Boy-o. But...if he gets a good defense, this might take a while. He could make the insanity plea...and I'm not sure it wouldn't work."

Annabeth shook her head firmly. "Enough for now." She glanced over at Stacy. "Ready to go?"

"Hell yes." Stacy sprung to her feet, not bothering to maintain the disinterested, sullen malaise she had been affecting during her stay at Safe Haven. "Let's go, _please?"_

Neither of them were at all sorry to leave the MCU-Stacy was too twitchy to feel comfortable there, and for Annabeth, it brought back plenty of unhappy memories. In fact, as they exited the building, Annabeth sighed with relief, fervently hoping she would have no call to set foot in the building ever again. She grinned at Stacy as they exited the building. "What do you say I buy you breakfast somewhere?"

Stacy didn't need to be asked twice; she came from a world where, if you hesitated too long, whatever chance of a treat would be whisked away. "Fine. I want pancakes."

"Pancakes it is," Annabeth agreed. And so the two of them set forth, trying to ignore the fact that two of Gordon's most trusted men were following behind. Someday, normalcy would be restored. But today was not that day.

* * *

Not so long ago, Annabeth had been young. Not so long ago, she had been perilously close to Stacy's current predicament, and it was only the intervention of blind luck that she hadn't gone the same way. She understood, only too well, the fear and anxiety Stacy was feeling, if not articulating. But Stacy was the same as any other teen Annabeth had ever encountered-she was determined to suffer alone.

They sat in the diner, their breakfast spread in front of them and ignored by both of them. Stacy picked half-heartedly at the pancakes she had so recently insisted upon, and Annabeth simply wasn't going to eat because she was biting her tongue in annoyance. Had she ever been that awful?

_Probably. _She answered her own question. _Probably still am, too._ She glanced down at her own meal-eggs and bacon and fruit, all untouched. She should be setting an example, but instead, she was too busy trying to figure out what to do with this troublesome Stacy.

Apparently, Stacy was worried about the same thing. She broke through her sullen exterior long enough to ask, "What's going to happen now?"

Oh, the million-dollar question. What _would _happen to Stacy now? A sixteen-year-old runaway, no family that she cared to speak of, no completed education, no marketable job skills, and the only person who had bothered to befriend her was dead at the hands of a toothpick parading as a man. What happened next, indeed?

Stalling for time, Annabeth tried to get some more information out of Stacy. "Still don't want to talk about your family?"

"No." Stacy shook her head vehemently, and her dirty, limp hair swung in time with the motion. "They're no help."

"What do you want to do?"

Stacy looked at Annabeth as though she had grown two heads. It was not something anyone had ever really cared about or paused to ask her. "What do you mean, what do I want?"

"It's a simple question." Annabeth gestured for the waitress to bring her more coffee. The morning was not yet over, and she was already dragging. "What do you want to do? No wrong answers here."

Stacy shook her head. "I don't know. Survive? Get a job? Make some money and be able to afford things?" She slouched down in her seat. "It's not like I'm really smart, though. Shit like that is hard."

"Straighten up." Annabeth said this sharply, moreso than she had really intended. "Come on, you want to make things even harder? Keep sitting there like a loser."

Sharp tones and no-nonsense talk were something that Stacy responded to more readily than sympathy or understanding. She straightened up and looked warily over at Annabeth, her unwelcome savior. "What's your bright idea?"

_Sixteen years old, _Annabeth mused. _Probably old enough to be emancipated, if she can prove that she can support herself in the long term. If she keeps clean and stays out of trouble. We can find her an advocate..._

"There's some possibilities," she began. "But it's going to be hard. Do you want to spend most of what could be a very short life on the streets, or do you want to try for something more?" _Too preachy. _"We don't have to help you-but we can if you're willing. Bear that in mind-if you say no, or decide you can't tough it out, it's your own damned problem, not ours."

"What do you know about problems?" Stacy sneered.

There was no point in sharing her experiences, Annabeth knew. She remembered enough about being a selfish teenager to know that one simply didn't accept that other people had pain and problems. To this streetwise kid, she was just another grown-up, an adult trying to commandeer her life. "My problems are none of your goddamned business!" she snapped. Once again, Stacy seemed to respond more respectfully to the harsh language. "But I'm making _your _problems _my_ business, and I'm pretty damned sure that even when I'm away this weekend, _trying _to have a good time, I'll still be trying to figure out how to help you, you bloody little ingrate." It was true, too-she could already imagine her silent spells of deep thought, Bruce's long-suffering resignation, Alfred's amused glances. _Dammit, _the first vacation she had had in a very long time-and she was beginning to really look forward to it-and she'd probably spend the majority of it too engrossed in thoughts of Safe Haven and Gotham and this little wretch to properly enjoy it.

Just then, she noticed that Stacy had finally begun to devour her pancakes.

"Oh, screw it," Annabeth sighed. "I've got packing to do."


	29. Chapter 29

For what seemed like the hundredth time that night, Annabeth turned over and tried to find a more comfortable position on her mattress. It had been the cheapest acquisition she had made when moving in to her condo; she had found it on a dubious Craigslist ad for only two hundred dollars, and while it was functional—barely—it was by no means comfortable. It was the primary reason, in fact, why Janey always opted to sleep on the slightly-broken couch, and the reason why she was perched out there now while Annabeth tossed and turned about in her bedroom.

Annabeth could hear Janey out there now—3AM in the morning, and the crazy woman was still awake, typing away on her laptop. Like the true friend she was, Janey had agreed to stay at her place that night, to help her pack and to see her off in the morning. As soon as Annabeth's bags were packed—one small suitcase stuffed with with clothes and cosmetics that Janey had forced upon her, a laptop bag, and a briefcase stuffed with files and other bits of work—Annabeth had collapsed onto her bed, eager to gain a few hours' sleep before Bruce and his butler picked her up at the first light of dawn.

But sleep did not appear to be forthcoming, which was no surprise... sleep was, at best, an irregular visitor to her home. And tonight, Annabeth was simply too wound up to sleep. She was equally apprehensive and curious about what the weekend might hold for her. Given Bruce's insistence on separate bedrooms, at least the question of seduction seemed a fairly unlikely issue to arise, which was just as well, in her opinion. But even with that wild card removed from the deck, it would no doubt be an interesting weekend.

From beyond her closed door, Annabeth heard the couch creak in protest as Janey shifted her weight. Whatever she was up to out there, it had to be better than waiting in vain for sleep to creep up on her, and so Annabeth threw back the covers and crept out of the bed. She slowly opened the bedroom door, trying hard to be quiet and not startle Janey, but she wasn't quiet enough. Janey looked up from her laptop and smiled. "No sleep for you, huh?"

"Nothing unusual there," Annabeth sighed. She ambled over to the armchair that faced Janey and settled down there. "What's your excuse?"

Janey's mischievous grin was a familiar and therefore soothing thing. "Starting shit with someone on the Internet."

"Again?" Annabeth raised her eyebrows. At times, Janey was even more strong-willed and opinionated than she herself was, and the anonymity of the Internet was a tantalizing medium for Janey to air her opinions and challenge what she perceived—often not incorrectly—to be the raging stupidity of others. "You know what they say about arguing on the Internet…it's like winning the Special Olympics. You may win, but you're still retarded."

"Annabeth!" Janey looked appalled, most likely by the source than the statement. "Good god, where'd you get that?"

"Where do you think? I overheard one of the kids at work say it yesterday. Isn't it awful?"

Janey shook her head and set aside her laptop. "You really need to try to get some sleep. You're going to look like hell tomorrow if you don't, and you don't want that to happen. Some of those people will be like piranhas—if they smell blood, they'll tear you apart."

"I know," Annabeth yawned. "But it won't make me go to sleep any faster. Maybe I'll nap on the way up."

"Oh, that'll be nice. Maybe you can on Bruce's shoulder." Janey smiled at this image, and then moved on to more important matters. "We packed some blush for you, right? You're so damned pale, it'd be a disaster if we forgot it."

"Yes, _mom,"_ Annabeth rolled her eyes. "Seriously, calm down. It'll be fine. You're more anxious about this than I am."

Janey shot her a knowing look. "I'm _anxious_ because I fully expect you to do something to sabotage this whole thing you've got going on with Bruce. You're fine now, but I bet if all of this went on for too much longer and started to work out, you'd _flip."_

_That was the problem with people that knew you so well, _Annabeth realized. _They could call you in on your bullshit and point out the flaws about yourself that you'd rather forget about._ Nonetheless, she felt the need to challenge Janey. "That's a bunch of hooey. I'm not flipping now. Why would I flip?"

"Because you hate change, you little ninny." There was a certain tone of pity, but also exasperation, in Janey' s voice. "Because your life was so unstable for the first eighteen damned years of it. Now that you've gotten to the point where you've established a little stability and security for yourself, you'd be quite happy scaring off anyone or anything that could shake things up."

"And why is that such a bad thing?" Annabeth demanded. She was annoyed at Janey, but at the same time, she was secretly marveling at how readily and articulately Janey could unleash her brand of brutal brutal honesty at such an ungodly hour. It was probably an extension of her internet retardation.

"Just because things change, that doesn't mean that they're always changing for the worse. Here Bruce has waltzed into your life and made all sorts of changes—_for the better, _it seems—and you seem to enjoy it, but I can tell…you're getting twitchy. You're feeling threatened. You're enjoying things now, but I'm willing to bet you're going to try to screw things up, just so things can go back to being safe and stable and uneventful."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Annabeth snapped. She rose from the armchair and headed back into the bedroom. "I think I prefer tossing and turning to this crap."

"Be sure you're back out here in two hours." Janey couldn't resist taking a parting shot and having the final word. "We're going to make sure you start this trip looking good—we'll have work to do."

* * *

Despite Janey's nagging and Annabeth's rejection of her advice, both of them were their normal sassy, friendly selves to each other when they began to move about the condo a few hours later. It was a familiar enough routine with them. One or the other would speak her mind and rankle the other, and within a few hours, common sense—and the knowledge that the nagger was right—intervened and mellowed them. And so it was that morning, and by 6:30, both of them were standing companionably on the sidewalk in front of Annabeth's building, awaiting Bruce and Alfred's imminent arrival.

The sun had not yet risen over Gotham, but in the grey pre-dawn, the first signs of city life were beginning to stir. Some hardy souls were out jogging, their breath puffing out white clouds of vapor into the chilly morning air. An occasional delivery vehicle chugged past, and in the distance, they could hear the sounds of traffic already beginning to clog the main arteries of the city.

"I think that's them," Janey announced unnecessarily. Both of them could see the stately silver car gliding down the street, and its presence was enough to confirm that Bruce Wayne had arrived—there was no other reason for a Rolls Royce to be present in this middle-class neighborhood of Gotham City.

They watched as Alfred emerged from the vehicle and walked around to open the backseat door; Bruce Wayne stepped out, looking as urbane and handsome as ever, bundled in an impossibly fine wool coat and scarf. Even in the dim morning light, they could see that he didn't look sleepy or groggy in the slightest; it was as though he had been up for hours.

"Damned good genes," Janey muttered, and then found herself temporarily transformed into a simpering mass of estrogen as Bruce flashed her a brilliant smile. There was a ruthless charm about him, she'd give him that—you could tell that his regard for you was genuine, and it was a deeply flattering thing. She watched as he turned his attention to Annabeth and took in her carefully-chosen outfit (chosen by Janey, of course): the double-breasted peacoat, the stylish hat, her carefully-applied makeup, and she allowed herself a moment of smug satisfaction. Bruce may appreciate Annabeth's low-maintenance ways, but he also appreciated a well-turned out woman. Janey took a moment to thank her lucky stars that Annabeth's had agreed to the loan of the clothing and cosmetics now stuffed in her suitcase.

Alfred was looking at that bag now. "Is that all you have, Miss de Burgh?"

"A laptop bag and a briefcase, too…" Annabeth looked a little sheepish. "I didn't pack too much, did I?"

Bruce laughed aloud, Janey giggled, and even Alfred allowed himself a small, gentle smile. "I'm sure you didn't, my dear."

"What's so funny?" Annabeth looked from one amused face to the other. "What did I say?"

"You'll see when we get there, and you see the other women," Bruce promised. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gently tugged her closer, and she allowed herself to relax in the warmth emanating from his body. "You look perfect," he whispered to her.

Janey smirked.

* * *

As the car pulled away from the curb, Annabeth turned around and waved to Janey from the rear window. After an amused glance at her, Bruce turned around and did the same. It was strange to consider the trip from Annabeth's point of view—an actual vacation, a departure which called for someone to see her off. It had been a long time since anyone bothered to see Bruce off.

After a moment of fierce waving, Annabeth sighed and turned back around to face her present circumstances, and settled back into her seat—although "settled" would hardly be the word Bruce would use to describe her. She sat on the slick leather, bolt upright, shoulders set, back straight. She looked extremely uncomfortable…and nervous.

There was a fair amount of empty seat and tense silence yawning between them, but little things like those weren't going to deter Bruce. He leaned across the back seat and murmured, "Relax." His voice was low and Annabeth swore she could almost feel his breath on her neck.

From the driver's seat, Alfred piped up. "Rest easy, my dear. Gotham City will still be here when you get back, and it will manage just fine without you both for a few days…won't it, Master Wayne?

"No doubt, Alfred." Bruce ignored the pointed tone in Alfred's voice; the older man had spent the better part of the week assuring him that a few days' absence wouldn't make a substantial difference. After all, he had jaunted off to China not that long ago, leaving Gotham open and vulnerable. And it was all in the name of his higher purpose…even this trip to the Elisa/Bradford wedding was for business. Nonetheless, he couldn't shake the persistent feeling of guilt that nagged away at him, even now…

"It feels so strange to be leaving Gotham," Annabeth said reflectively. "I just don't get away from the city much any more."

"Did you _ever_ leave it?" Bruce asked innocently, but there was a teasing lilt to his voice. Annabeth wrinkled her nose in reply and turned her face to gaze out the window at the passing scenery. At first, it was the side of Gotham with which she had grown more familiar over the years: the semi-suburban condos of Bordertown, blending gradually into the seedier areas on the outlying edges of northside Gotham—not nearly as desolate as the Narrows, but still lower-class and ill-maintained. This was where Annabeth had spent the majority of her life, first in apartments that were little more than slums, and then later, shunted about from one foster home to another, some more shabby than others. This was the part of Gotham populated with old duplex houses, chain link fences, grass creeping over the cracked sidewalks, and yards decorated with items traditionally kept within the home. She turned back to Bruce at this point, and was surprised to see him looking at her intensely. It was hard to tell, but it looked as though there was sympathy in his eyes.

"You know this area?" he asked after a moment.

"Is it obvious?" Annabeth smiled ruefully. "These are my old stomping grounds. This is where I grew up, this area." She kept her voice calm, betraying none of the unhappy memories that Bruce was certain lurked in her mind.

"What was it like?"

Annabeth was startled. "What?"

"What was it like?" Bruce persisted. "Living here, living with all of those foster families? I want to know, Annabeth." He twisted his torso so that he faced her and was able to treat her to his most intense, probing stare. "I want to know about you, understand you. And I want to understand this side of Gotham."

In the front seat, Alfred fiddled with some controls, trying desperately to be discreet and disinterested, even as he was absorbing every word. After a moment, a Beethoven concerto began to play softly, providing at least some cover noise for the couple.

"What was it like?" Annabeth repeated softly. "_Profoundly _unhappy. The fear of your foster family, if you didn't like them, was only outweighed by the fear of being taken away from, or rejected by, a foster family that you _did _like. And whatever rejection I felt from the foster families—well, it was irrelevant, in the face of the rejection of my own family. To have no family, no permanent home, to be that rootless…it's a pretty shitty feeling." So engrossed in her own thoughts had she become that the pressure on her hand took her by surprise—Bruce had taken her hand and was gently squeezing it as she spoke.

"It was a long time ago," he assured her.

"Was it?" Annabeth looked out the window once more, but that part of Gotham had already slipped past; Alfred had exited onto the interstate, and they were gaining speed. In a moment, they would be crossing the river onto the mainland. "Sometimes it doesn't feel like that long ago. I still dream about it, sometimes. Like how some people dream they're back in school again, or forgot their homework, but for me, I'm back in one of those places, with that constant uncertainty. I think sometimes it's still a part of me."

Now it was Bruce's turn to gaze out the window. Her words resonated with him, more than she could know, and it took him a moment to collect his thoughts. "Maybe it is part of you. Maybe it's just part of your identity, for better or for worse. Maybe that's always going to be the burden you carry."

"That's uncharacteristically bleak." Annabeth was taken aback by the expression on his face; there was an unguarded pain there that she had only seen a time or two before. "Am I rubbing off on you?"

Just like that, the unhappiness in his face melted away. "Only in good ways," Bruce smiled.

By this time, the day was beginning to break, but there was no sun to be seen. As the morning lightened, it became clear that it would be a typically late-autumn day, with high, wispy, grey clouds that would keep the sun's feeble rays from warming the earth. Annabeth shivered a little; it wasn't that she was cold—the heat in the car was going full blast, and the seat warmers were toasting her quite nicely, too—but there was little that could warm the icy core of her which seemed to be forever tied to Gotham.

For a good long while, all of them remained silent; Alfred was concentrating on the drive, and both Bruce and Annabeth looked intently out their respective windows, each occasionally stealing a glance at the other when the other was not looking. Alfred caught them doing this more than once, and smiled to himself. More and more, he was beginning to feel that they were very, very good for each other. It would be almost entertaining to him to see how the weekend would unfold.

Annabeth yawned.

"May as well get comfortable. We've got another four hours…and that's _if _the weather is good." Bruce became very solicitous of her comfort. "Do you want to lie down?"

"It's a car, Bruce, not an RV." Annabeth shook her head. "There's nowhere to lie down."

"Right here, on the seat." Bruce patted the seat between them. "Unfasten your seatbelt and stretch out…Alfred's a good driver. And you can use my leg as a pillow."

Annabeth cocked one eyebrow.

"I'll be good," Bruce promised. "Scout's honor. And think of how nice it'll feel, stretched out on that warm seat." He held up the coat that he had shed upon settling in for the ride. "How about a blanket, too?"

"I'll be fine." Annabeth said, or at least tried to say, but what came out was "All ee ine" as she yawned again. This time, her jaw popped alarmingly.

"Didn't get much sleep last night?" Bruce asked. He was shrewd enough to guess the truth, and so Annabeth didn't bother to fib.

"I was a little…wound up." Annabeth admitted. "I'm a little bit out of my depth. I can't imagine why you think I'd be a good addition to the crowd this weekend."

In the front seat, Alfred overheard and chortled. "You've spent enough time around that crowd, now, miss, to know that your presence will be a vast improvement on the weekend."

"He's right, you know," Bruce tried to soothe her. "You _are_ very different from most of the people there, but that's why Elisa wanted you to come, and it's why I wanted you to come with _me._ Relax. Enjoy the time you're spending with me." He grinned. "It's every woman's dream, isn't it?"

Annabeth rolled her eyes. "Oh lord. Is it too late to turn around, Alfred?"

Bruce leaned into her. "Relax. Take a nap." He tugged on her shoulder a little, and met no resistance. After a moment, Annabeth unfastened her seatbelt and lay, lengthwise, across the seat, resting her head on Bruce's thigh. Despite what he said, it wasn't a very good pillow at all, but by that point, Annabeth wasn't really caring. "Just a few minutes," she mumbled right before her eyelids drooped and sweet, quiet darkness closed in on her world. Her last conscious sensation was the feel of Bruce's hand as he slowly stroked her hair.

* * *

Just as he did in his job as a butler, a confidante, a medic, and an armor and weapons supplier, Alfred performed his task of chauffeuring with flawless competence and skill. He guided the car along the interstate, moving in and out of the early morning traffic. He remained quiet, wisely letting Annabeth doze and Bruce mull over his thoughts. That didn't stop him from glancing into the rearview mirror every now and then; each time he did, the view was the same: Annabeth sprawled out on the seat, sleeping peacefully, and Bruce sitting beside her, looking out the window but occasionally glancing down to make sure Annabeth was comfortable.

Privately Alfred suspected that Bruce was more at peace than he had been in a very, very long time. Stuck in the car as he was, caught between Gotham and the Berkshires, he was having to endure an enforced idleness which Alfred _knew _made him very unhappy…but at least he was able to endure it with Annabeth.

After almost an hour, she stirred awake and pulled herself upright. Almost guiltily, Bruce withdrew his hand from her hair, which he had been absently stroking since she had fallen asleep.

"How long was I out?" Annabeth croaked. "It feels like I slept for ages."

"Not quite that long, Rumpelstiltskin," Bruce assured her as he tentatively tugged a lock of hair out of her face. "You didn't even sleep a whole hour. We're bypassing New York traffic at the moment."

Annabeth eagerly twisted around to gaze out the window, but if she were expecting a cityscape much different than the one she saw before falling asleep, she was deeply disappointed. After taking in the skyline for a moment, she exclaimed, dismayed, "It's like we never even left Gotham!"

"You've never been to New York?" Bruce didn't disguise his surprise. "Your work never brought you here?"

"My work is a fairly recent addition to my life," Annabeth reminded him. "Before that it was college and grad school—not exactly conducive to living high on the hog—and before that, indigence and upheaval and domestic instability. Didn't leave a lot of time or money for visiting Gotham's big sister."

Bruce nodded, but inwardly, he was already making plans for how he could tempt Annabeth away for a long weekend in New York and the sights he would show her. Annabeth was a hard woman to impress, but the harder it became to impress, the more determined he was to do it. And judging by the poignantly wistful look on Annabeth's face as she gazed at New York City slipping away, that would be his best chance to invoke that wonder, however fleeting it might be.

_Now, if only Gotham wouldn't interfere…_

The city blended, gradually, into suburbs, and then even more gradually, the suburbs blended into countryside as they headed north. The terrain became more and more hilly, and they drove over and through more and more ravines, hills, and dense forests. Hundreds of trees, stripped of their leaves, studded the hillsides. Annabeth could tell they were heading into beautiful country.

"It's the Catskills," Bruce explained. "I think I came here skiing a couple of times when I was younger, didn't I, Alfred?"

"Just the once, when you sneaked off and broke a leg." Alfred sounded slightly amused. "Although I don't think you learned your lesson. It was almost as bad as the time we were on the Vineyard and you took that twenty-niner skiff out to sea…"

Bruce groaned in remembrance. "We lost the deposit on that, didn't we?"

Just then, Annabeth gasped as they drove past a clearing and were treated to an unexpected vista. Weak sunlight had begun creeping out, and it illuminated the valley far below them. A lake, not yet frozen over for the winter, glittered in the feeble sunshine, and tiny boats bobbed up and down on its calm waters. Even with the blight of the late autumn chill, it was a beautiful view. And that was when Bruce realized that it would take no flashy trip into New York City to fill Annabeth with wonder and awe—if anything, another city might just bore her. After all, hadn't she spoken of one day escaping to the countryside?

As they made their way further north, the countryside became even more beautiful. To Bruce and Alfred, it was nothing novel or overwhelming, but seeing it through Annabeth's eyes was a refreshing experience. She kept silent for the majority of the ride, content to look out the window at the ever-changing scenery. After a while, Bruce left her to her observations and quietly began to pull some documents out of his briefcase: the information that Alfred and Lucius had compiled on the various people attending the wedding that weekend. Bruce was fairly certain that, by the time he finished reading, he would know everything about everyone. Alfred and Lucius were nothing if not thorough…creepily so. And Bruce was determined to go into this knowing as much as he could about the glittering, elite crowds that would be swarming this weekend. _Poor Annabeth...she has no idea what she's in for…_

"What's that?" Annabeth inquired.

_Well, she was about to find out…_

"Profiles of some of the very important people who are going to be there this weekend," Bruce answered, passing her one of the folders containing information. "Information. Dirt. Sensitive material. Whatever you want to call it."

Annabeth's eyes were as round as an owl's. "Where'd you get this? Is it…legal?" She started to open the folder, and then paused. "Should I be allowed to see this stuff? Should _anyone?_" As she asked this, she reluctantly dragged her eyes away from the tantalizing papers that she held. She already knew the answer, and while it rang every ethical warning bell in her brain, lord, she was curious.

"Probably not. But then, I'm probably not supposed to see this stuff, either. So you want to ask yourself, do you really want to fall down that rabbit hole?" Bruce held Annabeth's gaze for a moment and held out his hand for the folder.

Annabeth bit her lip thoughtfully, and glanced down at the folder again. "Why is it important for you to have and know all of this information? Haven't you known most of these people for your entire life? What does it matter?"

These were all very valid questions. Bruce paused for a moment and debated within himself how much he could safely reveal, and finally opted for a half-truth. "Some of these people want to go into business with me….investments, joint ventures, partnerships, and the like. I don't worry about the details—" he waved his hand airily, dismissing the major details and the guilt of the lie, "Lucius takes care of that. But I want to know as much as I can about these people. If they've got shady dealings or dubious vices or unsavory tendencies or business practices I don't like, I want to avoid them. It's my own…code of ethics, if you will."

Annabeth nodded, trying to process this information. "You want to go into this house party knowing everything about everyone."

"Knowledge is power," Bruce said softly.

For some reason, his words had a sinister sound to them. Annabeth tried to ignore the shiver that crept down her spine. "Well, how about you share some of that power? You're about to send me into this crowd, and they could tear me apart. You should give me some of the most important information."

"Why? So you can blackmail them into giving Safe Haven more funding?" Bruce teased.

"Don't be silly." Annabeth began flipping through the folder, absorbing the extensive information contained within. "I only blackmail if bullying, misandry, and guilt-tripping don't work. So…I'll quiz you!"

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "Where did your scruples go?"

She shrugged. "I think we left them by the side of the road, about half a mile back. So, at the very least, tell me about the Winstons…"

Thus prompted, and with such a rapt audience, Bruce had little difficulty in falling into a steady monlogue about the Winstons, and then about many of the more important people Annabeth could expect to encounter that weekend. She interrupted only once or twice, to clarify a point, but for the most part, she was content to listen to Bruce's descriptions and imagine what was ahead.

_Forewarned is forearmed. Knowledge is power._

There was nothing, no way to warn Annabeth about their destination, however. She had asked around before departing, but nobody could tell her much about the Winston's ancestral home of Bellingham Manor, tucked away in the Berkshires. The Winstons were old money— "they make the Wayne family look like _parvenus,"_ Bruce grimaced. "The ancestory from whom they're descended was the youngest son of a landed gentry family in England, came over in the seventeen hundreds...the family has since managed to change with the times and hang on to their wealth."

"I've heard, Master Wayne, that the Winston ancestors shipped over some foundation stones from their England home and built Bellingham Manor from that." Alfred chimed in with this offering, and his eyes shone a little at the thought.

"Alfred thinks he's going back to the Mother Country." Bruce smirked a little. "Ten bucks says that he and Bradford's mother will be drinking tea all weekend. Elisa's going to have to run her own wedding."

He went on to describe the house, the grounds, and the gardens. "During the summer, it's all magnificent, but now, you'll want to keep to the conservatory. Everything out of doors will be drab."

"Is the house very big?" Annabeth wanted to know. In her mind, she began imagining a vast and rambling house in which she would become hopelessly lost. Bruce's description did nothing to soothe her. _Last night I dreamt I went to Manderly again..._

"Bellingham's a bit on the enormous side. The Winstons converted to Catholicism back in the early nineteenth century—the work of a particularly devout and beautiful Irishwoman who married into the family—and good god, they had a lot of children, so they built up the house over the years. Full of antiques and arts, of course, and countless rooms."

Apprehension began to build within Annabeth. "You're not serious…how much bigger than your place can it be?"

"There might even be a ghost or two." Bruce smiled gently. "You don't need to worry. The Winstons are old money, but they're classy. They'll make sure you're right at home…and they won't put you in the most-haunted bedchamber. I already asked Elisa to make sure of that."

Alfred took pity on Annabeth. "Don't listen to Master Wayne, my dear. He's trying to make you think that there's a ghost so that halfway through the weekend, when he grows bored, he can try to scare the daylights out of you. Bellingham _is _a little on the large side, but it's a lovely place all the same. See for yourself."

They had distracted Annabeth with their banter so much that she hadn't realized that they had come upon their destination. She glanced out the window, and then stared, because even after the descriptions, Bellingham took her by surprise. Her breath caught in her throat as she took it all in, first the ivy-lined brick wall and wrought-iron fence and the gatehouse, and then beyond that the rolling expanse of lawn that sloped gently upward to the actual house. Only, _house_ wasn't the correct word…_manor _didn't cover it, either. The Wayne family house was a _manor, _but Bellingham… Bellingham looked closer to a castle.

_Or maybe even a palace, _Annabeth mused. She'd reserve her final judgment until she saw the interior. But from what she could see of the gables and turrets, the windows gleaming in the morning light, the masonry and the gargoyles and the building which just seemed to go on and up forever, she suspected "palace_" _was probably the right word for it. Bruce hadn't been kidding when he said the Winstons were _old money; _the whole place seemed to have an archaic air to it, a feeling of permanence and history and a family tree which could be traced back to long before the Winston ancestors stepped off their ships onto American soil.

At the gatehouse, Alfred stopped the car and spoke with an attendant dressed in a smart uniform; after showing the engraved invitation, the gate swung slowly inward, admitting them onto the grounds.

"You ready for this?" Bruce asked Annabeth. He spoke very quietly, so that only she heard him.

"Less and less with each passing second." Annabeth was pale, and he could tell that tension was coiling in her body. "This isn't me. I don't belong here." All at once, she wished to be back in Gotham, back in Safe Haven, back in a life of predictability, even drudgery. She was not at all certain that she was ready to be catapulted into this very different world. Such a very short time ago, she was simply Annabeth de Burgh, a loner social worker with little more than a crusade to keep her company and give her comfort. She came from nothing—her parents had been worthless deadbeats, she had no family, no connections, no money—and yet, somehow, she had ended up here, in the company of Bruce Wayne, about to attend _the _social event of the year. She had never expected to move in these circles, nor had she ever wanted to. This was beyond her wildest imaginings.

Bruce's hand stole over hers. "Don't go wimpy on me," he murmured. "This is just a prolonged social event. Nothing special." He was becoming a little worried—had Annabeth finally succumbed the awe that excessive wealth and grandeur sometimes induced? It was one of the things that he loved about her—her lack of pretension, her indifference to wealth and status when compared with character and integrity. It would be a twisted irony if these traits of hers were ruined by the wealthy people that he had brought into her life.

But then, Annabeth's common sense—another trait about her that Bruce loved—asserted itself with a vengeance. He could almost hear her scolding herself: _"Why are you getting fussy? They're just people, no better or worse than you. None of this matters. What matters is who they are within."_ Annabeth straightened up a little, and the apprehensive look faded from her face. Her eyes burned fiercely, and her prickly demeanor asserted itself. There would be no one this weekend that would make her feel like she was anything less than them. She had come a long way from her wretched early years, and it didn't matter at all; it didn't make her worth any less than them.

And judging by the admiring look Bruce was giving her, in his eyes, it actually made her worth much, much more.

Alfred guided the the car up the curving drive, and even before he had parked, the enormous doors leading into the house swung open, and a tall woman stepped into the cold morning. She waited at the top of the stone steps, slowly rubbing her arms to keep them warm, watching as Bruce and Annabeth and Alfred emerged from the car and stretched their legs. The woman made a mental note to don something warmer than her current silk blouse—Wayne and his lady friend and butler were only the first to arrive, and she had no doubt she'd be out here in the freezing cold, greeting people for the majority of the day.

"Victoria!" Bruce loped up the steps. "Ever the gracious hostess; you should be warm, inside, like I'll soon be."

"Bruce." She proffered her cheek and dutifully, he kissed it. As a child, he had been terrified of Victoria Leigh-Winston, but as an adult he had managed to see past her chilly, proper reserve to see the true lady within. "Please introduce me to your friend."

Annabeth shuffled up the stairs and joined Bruce's side, and for a moment, the two women observed each other. Victoria gazed down at the smaller, younger woman and noted her intense brown eyes, her penetrating gaze, her stiff posture. Here was a woman who had grown up before she should have, a woman who made no apology to the world for how and who she was. Victoria respected this, and she respected, too, her future daughter-in-law Elisa's high opinion of her.

Annabeth took in Victoria Leigh-Winston, wife to Gregory, mother to Bradford. She was tall and slender, and her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into an elegant French twist. Victoria had to be at least sixty, but she seemed ageless. Her steely grey eyes gave away nothing, but her smile seemed genuine. Annabeth held out her hand. "Annabeth de Burgh, ma'am. Elisa's spoken very highly of you; she's very lucky to have such a nice and generous mother-in-law. Thank you so much for having us here."

Beside her, Bruce started; he hadn't thought Annabeth capable of such honeyed words. Over the top of Annabeth's head, he saw Alfred's look of surprise, too. _Still waters run deep…_

"Victoria Leigh-Winston." Victoria shook Annabeth's hand firmly. "Welcome. And may I say, anyone who can keep Bruce Wayne in line is always welcome in my home. Elisa's a sweet girl, and we're just as lucky to have her in our family. Now," Victoria morphed into the consummate hostess, focused on the business at hand. "It's freezing out here, and you've all been up since the crack of dawn. You're the first to arrive, and this place is going to be a madhouse. I'm going to show you up to your rooms, and I suggest you have a quick nap before the insanity begins." Victoria clearly would accept no protests, and began to usher them inside. "I'll be right behind you."

Briefly, Annabeth thought of Cinderella before the ball—and then glanced back at their car, which resembled no pumpkin she had ever seen. Whatever nonsense would unfold during the course of the weekend, she would be the same from beginning to end, and it was that thought that steeled her spine as she commenced her foray into this rarified world. It was just as well that, flanked by Alfred and Bruce, she entered Bellingham peacefully and even eagerly, little guessing the transformation she was about to undergo within the manor.

As they stepped over the massive threshold of Bellingham and entered the even-more-massive entrance hall, Bruce snuck a glance over at Annabeth. Her face was schooled into its usual expression of impassivity, but he had grown to know her enough to know that there was a lot more going on under the surface. He reached down and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Annabeth glanced up at him, briefly, and gave him the slightest smile. She left her hand in his, however, and the gesture was lost on neither Alfred nor Victoria. The two older adults glanced at each other, and Alfred merely gave a mysterious smile and a half-shrug.

No poker face, however, could keep Annabeth's eyes from darting about, taking in the details of elegance and grandeur. Bellingham could have easily been a house intended for royalty—and for all she knew, perhaps it was not beyond the realm of possibility. Silently she took in the sixty-foot ceiling of the Great Hall—by sheer instinct she knew it to be a Great Hall and nothing less—supported by soaring arches; the massive dome of stained glass; the sweeping staircase leading to the floors above; the waxed and gleaming wood floors; the tapestries; the Persian rugs.

"Not in Gotham anymore," she murmured to Bruce, who gave her an encouraging smile.

It was then that Annabeth began to realize how tired she was. Even though she had had her nap on the ride up, it had hardly been restorative, and she was left wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for another two days. As well, she hadn't eaten since…well, she couldn't really remember. This was why she didn't try to take vacations often—so long as she kept busy, she couldn't realize how truly exhausted she was. But give her a few hours of enforced idleness, and she crashed. In her sudden weariness, she swayed slightly, and then caught herself, hoping none of her companions had caught it.

They hadn't. Victoria and Alfred had begun to converse with the ease of people who had known each other for decades, and had momentarily forgotten her presence, and Bruce was curiously gazing around the Great Hall, eager to see what had changed in his absence. Annabeth temporarily forgot her fatigue and studied him with more attention. His brow was furrowed as he looked around, and there was a look of concentration around him. Given the intensity with which he was studying his surroundings, it almost seemed like he was assessing everything and calculating to see how it wold fit in with some sort of scheme he was trying to hatch.

Annabeth shook her head. Bruce couldn't scheme his way out of a backstreet alley in Gotham, nor would he have any need to. Clearly she needed to get more sleep.

Victoria saw Bruce gazing around, and Annabeth's subdued demeanor. "It looks enormous, I know," she said, her voice carrying a slight tinge of gentle mirth. "The first year I lived here, I got lost at least once a month. But the public rooms on this floor are fairly easy to navigate, and so long as you remember how to get from your bed chamber to this floor, you'll be fine. I did leave some bread crumbs and a ball of twine in your room, though."

Annabeth glanced back at her, and incredibly, Victoria winked. There was more to this grand society dame than met the eye.

At that moment, Annabeth's foot caught on the edge of a Persian rug, and she stumbled. Only Bruce's quick reflexes kept her from doing an undignified face-plant into the floor; he tightened his grip on her hand at the same time as he caught her elbow with his other hand and kept her upright.

"Good heavens, Miss Annabeth," Alfred said as he joined her side. "Are you quite alright?"

All three of the others studied her for a moment, and they could plainly see that Annabeth wasn't quite alright. She was pale and tired-looking, which was nothing new, but it was rare to see her nodding off in front of them.

Bruce made a shrewd guess. "When was the last time you had anything to eat?" He kept his voice light, but he was frowning.

"Uuuh…yesterday? Lunch, maybe?" Annabeth tried to keep it light. But she swayed dizzily once again, and Alfred looked over at Victoria, who, like the flawless hostess she was, took the hint.

"Perhaps you would all like some breakfast before I show you up to your rooms?" she asked lightly, and took the lead. "I believe our chef is keeping food in the breakfast room all day, since we're going to have people arriving at all hours. Follow me." She led them through a maze of hallways, rooms, and corridors, all of which seemed familiar to Bruce and Alfred, but to Annabeth, in her fatigue and hunger-addled state, it merely seemed confusing and overwhelming.

After what seemed like an endless journey, Victoria came to a halt in front of a set of double doors and swung them open. After the wealth and pomp of the rooms through which Annabeth had already passed, she would not have been at all surprised had Victoria led them into a medieval banquet hall. But no, the room that was revealed to them was much smaller and more intimate, and for that reason alone, that much more charming.

Exhausted though she was, Annabeth was still able to take in the crisp white linens, the fire crackling away in the blue-veined marble fireplace, the sky-blue raw silk lining the walls, the enormous bowl of hydrangeas in the middle of the table, and the feeble morning sunlight fingering its way past the enormous bay window and catching in the silver and delicate china, all meticulously laid out.

Bruce didn't give her much time to admire the scenery; firmly, he planted his hands on her shoulders and steered her towards the table. "Sit," he commanded, pulling out a chair, and Annabeth, too tired to think of doing anything contrary, obeyed.

Victoria seated herself a few seats away, and cocked an eyebrow as she watched Bruce make a beeline for the eighteenth-century sideboard, plate in hand. The chef had set out several hotplates and dishes filled with breakfast delicacies, and Bruce was unsparing as he heaped eggs, fresh fruit, and potatoes onto the plate. He placed the plate in front of Annabeth and sat down beside her. "Eat," he said, his tone, if possible, more commandeering than before.

"My goodness, Bruce," Victoria remarked, "this is a brand new side to you."

"Wouldn't you like some food, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked. He, too, was filling his plate; it was nice to eat food cooked by someone else for a change.

"Not until Annabeth's eaten." Bruce frowned ferociously.

Alfred seated himself across from Victoria, who continued to watch Annabeth and Bruce's interactions: Annabeth had begun to eat slowly, silently, and sleepily; Bruce was watching her beadily.

"Miss Annabeth has a habit of neglecting basic things like eating and sleeping," he explained to Victoria, his tone slightly exasperated. "I sometimes think she believes she is stronger than we lesser mortals."

"I can't _imagine_ how frustrating that must be," Alfred said, shooting Bruce a surprisingly dirty look.

Delicately, Victoria tried to steer them towards calmer waters. "Coffee?" she offered Annabeth, reaching for the silver pot on the table.

"NO!" Both Alfred and Bruce exclaimed.

Victoria blinked owlishly.

"If you give her caffeine, she's going to terrorize every man, woman, and child in this house for the entire weekend," Bruce explained to Victoria. "For the safety of everyone, keep this away from her." To punctuate his words, he took the pot and removed it from Annabeth's reach.

Annabeth simply continued chewing methodically as she struggled not to fall asleep in her breakfast, and occasionally cast longing eyes at the silver coffee pot. Without her curious combination of passion and snarkiness to add flavor to the conversation, Bruce and Victoria simply settled for making idle chatter—Victoria clearly assumed they were catching up on the gossip of their social circle, but Bruce, Alfred knew, was sniffing out information that wouldn't be in any file, computer record, or dossier.

"Who's going to be in the house party staying here?" Bruce was asking as he polished off the eggs benedict on his plate.

"Apart from yourselves? Mayor Garcia, of course, and his wife, Aimee. His second wife, I should say…the first one is stowed away somewhere in upstate New York, with the children. Funny how there wasn't much coverage about their divorce…who else?" Victoria paused, and Alfred suspected that it was not in an effort to remember, but rather to give her audience time to absorb. Accomplished hostesses like Victoria forgot nothing. "My sister-in-law, Grace, who's Vice-President of the Board at Gotham Memorial Hospital, and her husband, Aloysius. I still don't understand how she could marry a man named _Aloysius_. But at least he took the Winston name. Their daughter—Bradford's cousin—Theresa…she's flying in from a modeling shoot in Majorca this evening, dating a federal agent, if you can believe that…" Victoria's tone was admiring. "It seems the younger generation is determined to add some new elements to the gene pool."

Annabeth revived long enough to issue a challenge. "Is that a problem?"

This unexpected sauciness from a guest who was previously semi-comatose didn't surprise Victoria in the slightest. She simply smiled gently as she responded, "On the contrary, I think it's the best thing for any family. I was one of those new elements, at one point…" her eyes narrowed as she watched Annabeth's head dip down a little. "Another story for another time, I think…Bruce, my dear…" she turned to Bruce and favored him with a perfect smile, "I think it's time for Annabeth to be taken to her room. Did you want to take her up? She's in the Medieval Chamber, and you're in the one next to hers, the Heppelwhite Suite."

Bruce nodded. " I remember where it is. I'll go ahead and take her up…if we can wake her up."

" 'm not sleep," Annabeth mumbled. A second later, her head jerked up. "What?"

Of course, Victoria was too polite to laugh, but her lips twitched a little. "We were just saying that it's time to show you both to your rooms…but Bruce remembers his way around, I'm sure…I think some of the other guests will be arriving soon, so I think I can leave you to it?" Without giving them an opportunity to answer, she rose gracefully from her seat. "Sleep as long as you need to, my dears. The house and festivities will still be here when you return to the land of the living."

She rose from her seat, and both Bruce and Alfred followed suit. Annabeth blearily watched the older woman as she left the room, and then turned to them. "I'm confused…did I just meet Emily Post?"

Alfred chuckled, and Bruce laughed outright as he helped her to her feet. "A close relation, I think. Victoria's suited for this life…" he maintained a firm grip on her arm. "Come on…now that we've gotten enough food in you so that you don't eat a pillow when you're asleep, it's time to get you to your room. You need a nap."

Obediently, Annabeth rose from her seat and leaned into Bruce. "You're nice."

Bruce cast an enigmatic look at Alfred before turning his attention back to Annabeth. "You're delirious. Time to sleep."

Old memories and habits never truly die. While it had been many, many years since Bruce had visited Bellingham, he had not yet forgotten the manor house, or the layout of it. With enormous ease and confidence, he led Annabeth through the manor, keeping one arm gently around her shoulders, half-supporting, half-guiding her. Were it not for that, and Alfred faithfully bringing up the rear, Bruce had no doubt Annabeth would have somehow ended up in the old kitchens, or possibly wandering the grounds no small distance from the house. He found himself hoping sincerely she didn't have a tendency towards sleepwalking—if so, they might never find her.

Up the grand staircase he led her, and through the endless maze of corridors. "When you're actually awake I'll show you the back ways," Bruce said. "The routes that the servants took—probably still take—for housekeeping."

"And that the lovers took for their secret trysts," Alfred chimed in helpfully.

At long last, they entered the Guest Wing, at the west end of the house. "About seven bedrooms on this floor, and another seven on the floor above," Bruce remarked. "In addition to the guest parlor and the gallery. Don't bother using those rooms…no one ever does. All of the important stuff happens in the public rooms on the first floor."

Annabeth "mmmmed" in reply; she was solely focused on staying awake. When were they going to get to their rooms?

And then they were there. Bruce came to a sudden stop in front of a massive door—which was exactly the same as all the others down the corridor-and turned to Annabeth. "Are you ready?"

She managed to give him a bleary-eyed glare. "Sleep. Now."

Alfred coughed delicately behind them.

"Fine, fine." Bruce grasped the rather large door handle and nudged the door open. "Welcome to your new home for the next few days."

Annabeth was too far gone to take in the opulence of the bed chamber that Victoria had assigned to her. She was too tired to notice Bruce's gentle hands as he guided her towards the enormous bed and helped her in. She was too sleepy to feel the soft eiderdown comforter as Alfred placed it over her. And she was too far into sleep to hear the whispered exchange between Bruce and Alfred.

"I think I will go back down to the car, Master Wayne. No one needs to bring up our luggage, I don't think." Alfred meandered over to the enormous window that overlooked the western grounds.

"No indeed," Bruce agreed, thinking about the various supplies and equipment stashed away in the secret compartments of his custom-built Rolls-Royce. He may not be able to don a batsuit and cape over the course of the weekend, but there was still plenty of work that could be done that would possibly require his tools of the trade. "I think we should let her sleep, though...just let her wake on her own. She needs the sleep."

"She can't get into any trouble, either, when she's sleeping." Alfred agreed affably.

Annabeth snored lightly.

Bruce leaned down and brushed Annabeth's forehead with his lips. She didn't stir, and Bruce turned back to Alfred. "Good thing...when it comes time for her to meet everyone, she might need us around to keep her out of trouble." He straightened up and headed out of the bedroom, Alfred on his heels.

"And where are you off to, sir?" Alfred asked, watching as Bruce began to make his way down the corridor. Bruce glanced back at him, and the jocular countenance he had been maintaining for hours, for Annabeth and Victoria, was long gone, and only grim determination remained.

"I'm going to explore."


	30. Chapter 30

Many years before, shortly after Victoria Leigh married into the Winston family, her parents-in-law had died—either considerately or inconveniently, depending on one's perspective—one right after the other, and Victoria found herself, at the tender age of twenty-five, thrust into the role of the Winston family matriarch. As the youngest daughter of a couple belonging to a fairly insignificant and relatively impoverished branch of a wealthy family, Victoria had, at first, found herself hopelessly out of her depth. Charged with the running of a large establishment, the entertainment of countless guests who flitted in and out at will, the nurturing of her husband's burgeoning political career, and before too long, the rearing and education of Bradford, Victoria had little more than her innate good taste, tact, and a fairly useless liberal arts degree from Bryn Mawr to guide her. Those first few years were trying and often stressful, but life would have been much more difficult were it not for the friendship she developed with Alfred Pennyworth.

Even back then, Victoria had been in possession of a stubbornly independent streak that bordered on the unconventional, and so no one was very surprised when they saw how readily she took to the Waynes' butler. She had first met him shortly after the memorial service for Gregory's parents: the Waynes had journeyed up to Bellingham for the weekend with Alfred in tow. He was solicitous, discreet, refreshingly unpretentious, and so completely different than the then-butler of Bellingham. Victoria had found him to be a man of dubious ethics and little personality, and it was clear that he thought little of the new lady of the manor. She knew he had to go, but she had no idea how to be rid of him, or how to replace him-but within five minutes of observing Alfred's attentive and kind manner, Victoria decided to poach him.

She had cornered Alfred alone in the billiards room, not giving a damn about the propriety of manhandling her guests' beloved butler. With little preamble, Victoria had informed him of her intentions, and immediately set about offering terms that only the most unworldly man would refuse. To Victoria's dismay, Alfred was that unworldly man; he had immediately and kindly declined her offer. This had only fueled Victoria's desperation, and she continued to plead, coax, and offer increasingly more wild incentives. With each gentle refusal, Victoria had become more and more shrill until, much to Alfred's consternation, she had burst into frustrated tears.

Buttling for the Waynes had rendered Alfred somewhat immune to the openness of Americans—even the WASP-Y ones—and so Alfred had done what he did best: he poured the young woman a glass of sherry and guided her to one of the ancient leather seats. Victoria let everything pour forth: her silly but very real intimidation by the absurd butler was merely the tip of a very large iceberg. Isolated as she was at Bellingham, feeling more than a little inadequate, and newly pregnant—Alfred had moved the sherry glass away from her reach upon gleaning this piece of information—Victoria was quite simply exhausted. Alfred had let her talk and cry for a reasonable amount of time, and then he went about setting everything to rights.

"First," he firmly instructed her, "get rid of that officious twit of a butler." Alfred's disapproval had been palpable. "I am certain he tipples, anyway. You need staff who are loyal to you, and it doesn't hurt for you to flex your muscles for the remaining staff."

"But Gregory won't _understand!" _Victoria had sniffled. "He's our _butler. _We need him!"

"Nonsense, my dear. The best butlers are needed, of course. But the sneakiest butlers only make you _think _you need them...and if you and Mr. Winston take a trip down to your wine cellar, I think you will find some of your best vintages are unaccounted for."

"What?" Amazement had transformed Victoria's unhappy countenance. "How do you know?"

Alfred had not answered her directly. He only said, "_Good _butlers know everything that goes on in their houses...but the _best _butlers know what goes on in _other _peoples' houses."

All of that had happened so long ago-more than thirty years had passed. Their friendship had endured Gregory's rise in the political world, and the horrific murder of Thomas and Martha had only brought Bruce and Alfred to Bellingham more often, Alfred drawn there for the company and Bruce for the relative normalcy of Victoria's no-nonsense brand of maternal instincts and Bradford's sweet-natured companionship. Victoria watched as Alfred slowly aged and Bruce grew from a curious, forward toddler to a solemn boy to a withdrawn and terse young man. Together Victoria and Alfred, and Gregory too, in his offhand way, kept an eye on him, and Victoria offered advice from the wings, just as Alfred quietly-and less frequently as the years went on-offered her encouragement and guidance in running the behemoth estate that was Bellingham. Victoria fussed and worried over him when Bruce so strangely disappeared and left the family butler alone with the sprawling manor and the lonely memories, and quietly rejoiced when the wayward boy—for a boy Bruce would always be to Victoria—inexplicably returned. To borrow one of Alfred's delightfully British turns of phrase, it had all come out in the wash.

_Or had it?_

This was the question that Victoria was pondering as she and Alfred visited that chilly, bleak day, just one day until her son's wedding. Although they were closeted away in the winter parlor, sipping tea, Victoria was by no means neglectful of her household; rather, she knew everything going on. Gregory had taken the reception of guests into his capable hands, and was no doubt leading them on a tour that led directly to the wine cellar. Bradford had gone into town for some last-minute supplies, Elisa was working away in the dark room that they had fitted out for her as a wedding gift, and Annabeth, that dark horse that Bruce had brought along, was fast asleep upstairs, and presumably, Bruce was as well. Therefore, Victoria took it upon herself to permit themselves a few moments of stolen leisure, in which she and Alfred caught up over cups of hot, fragrant tea, platters of scones and sandwiches, and a few iced fairy cakes for good measure.

Victoria looked over at her old friend, comfortably settled in a wing chair and gently cradling a delicate china cup and saucer. After giving him a moment's intense scrutiny, Victoria was satisfied; he seemed as little changed as ever, at least in appearance,

And yet-

"We see so little of you, Alfred, since Bruce came back," Victoria began with a little hesitation. "I think this is only the second time you've visited since, and he's been back quite a while now."

Alfred did not respond immediately. He sipped his tea, and for a moment the aroma of Darjeeling and lemon wafted through the air.

"Alfred?" Victoria prompted.

Still another moment's hesitation, and then Alfred answered. "The reconstruction of Wayne Manor was far more time consuming than any of us realized." He reached for one of the shortbread biscuits Victoria had artfully arranged on a platter, and then shrugged. "And Master Wayne's social schedule tends to keep me quite busy."

"Really, Alfred," Victoria gently scolded him. "That's quite absurd. You tend to Bruce more now than you ever did when he was a child. All this gallivanting about Gotham—what's the boy playing at? He never _used _to be like this!"

"Mmmm." Alfred was studying the saucer in his hands. "My dear, where did you get this pattern? I've been looking for a replacement set for close to a year!"

"Alfred!" Victoria set her cup and saucer down with a forceful clatter that would have made her cringe under normal circumstances. She rose from her seat and stalked over to the window. If her back had not been turned to Alfred, she would have seen the guilty expression on his face. "You've changed, Alfred, since Bruce came back. You're so vague and evasive, and I'm never sure if I am getting a straight answer from you."

Silence was the only response she received. It stretched on, became painfully loud. The Vienna clock in the corner ticked all the more loudly in the absence of conversation.

"I love Bruce almost as though he were my son," Victoria went on. "Martha and I were close, and I owed it to her to help wherever I could. And I owe it to our friendship, Alfred, to help you as much as you helped me all those years."

"We're fine, Victoria," Alfred assured her. "I know it seems that Master Wayne is a bit...wild...but he really does have good sense."_When it's not being smacked out of him by the scum of Gotham. _"The Wayne family fortune is in very capable hands-Bruce is quite devoted to his work." Alfred took a sip of his tea, hiding his eyes behind the rim of his cup. Master Bruce did indeed have capable hands, which were, at the moment, currently occupied with installing tiny-thereby belying their outrageous costs-surveillance devices in the various chambers and corridors. "Keep Victoria occupied in the meantime," he had instructed Alfred, and Alfred had promised, cringing even as he thought of Bruce methodically bugging Bellingham Manor.

Victoria was, of course, blissfully unaware of the deceptive shenanigans Bruce was currently getting himself into. She merely took another sip of her tea and continued her contemplation of Alfred. It was only the many years of his acting experience which now enabled him to meet Victoria's querying gaze with open—yet false—frankness; it was just as well that she was unable to see the shadow of guilt which covered his heart. Bruce Wayne's choices and path had affected much more than just his own life—Alfred's life was, in its own way, as isolated and estranged, essentially dividing him permanently from any sort of open, honest friendship, even with his oldest companions, like Victoria. His life had become an existence peppered with lies of omission, and while it was a choice he had freely made and would make again, he could not help but to mourn that which he had lost: the openness and transparency of a calm and simple life.

Any further thoughts along this vein were interrupted by Victoria's sudden change of tact. "What can you tell me about Bruce's lady friend?"

"Miss Annabeth?" Once more, Alfred was on his guard, but this time, not only to protect Bruce's interests, but Annabeth's as well. He barely understood what was transpiring between them; in fact, Alfred suspected that they understood as little as he did. But the less information conveyed to outsiders, even friends like Victoria, the better. "I believe Master Wayne has developed quite the rapport with her."

"Rapport, eh?" Victoria's scrutiny intensified. "How serious is he about her?"

Again, Alfred had no satisfactory answers, and again, he suspected—no, he _knew_—that Bruce Wayne did not, either. "I cannot rightly say," he finally admitted. "Both of them appear to enjoy each other's company...but...both of them have very different lifestyles."

"Hmmm." This was clearly an unsatisfactory answer in Victoria's estimation. "That was an exemplary nonanswer, my dear. When did you get so good at that?" She didn't wait for his next nonanswer; after all, she had the entire weekend to pry, listen, and observe. "How did they meet?"

"In a work capacity, I believe." This was true enough. "I believe Miss de Burgh is involved in some organizations in which Master Wayne takes a charitable interest." He saw Victoria raise a suspicious eyebrow, and hastened to reassure her. "It's nothing like that—Miss Annabeth is about the most unworldly woman that you'll ever have the opportunity to meet. She doesn't suffer fools gladly, and you can be sure that her reasons for spending time with Master Wayne have little to do with getting her capable hands on the family fortune."

"Bradford and Elisa speak very highly of her. They say she keeps Bruce on his toes."

"She runs circles around him, more like," Alfred chuckled, but then worried that even in that little bit, he had revealed too much. "Really, Victoria, it's getting rather late in the day. Don't you think there are some guests to whom you should be attending?"

"If they're as narcoleptic as your employer and his lady, it'll be the easiest house party yet," Victoria retorted. "Still, you're right, as always. The public awaits. And you should probably make sure Bruce and Annabeth haven't managed to sleepwalk their way into the back passages and get lost. This house has secrets that even I don't know about."

She was more correct than she knew.

One floor above, and over in the guest wing, the object of Victoria's curiosity was finally starting to emerge from the depths of sleep. It had been a long time since Annabeth had slept anywhere other than in the tender bosom of Gotham, and it had been an equally long time since she had encountered a sleep so deep and peaceful. As wakefulness and energy crept back into her limbs, so too did awareness of her surroundings creep into her consciousness. The magnificence of her bed chamber was astounding, to say nothing of absurd—the bed alone was fairly overwhelming, with its intricately carved posts, its sumptuous canopy, and its matching drapes. Judging by the rather frigid temperature of the bedchamber, Annabeth had little doubt that, come nightfall, those bedcurtains would no longer be simply ornamental.

Beyond the bed was, predictably, more excessive splendor. Blearily Annabeth recalled Victoria referring to it as "the medieval chamber," and now it was clear as to why. Nothing in the room, other than the current guest and her luggage, appeared to be any newer than the fifteenth century. From the massive stone fireplace right down to the cushions on the very uncomfortable-looking chairs, the message was quite clear: the guests were the only anachronisms.

Across the room, at an enormous door which presumably led to the rest of the house, there was a soft knock, barely audible through the sturdy wood. "Annabeth?"

It was Elisa, no doubt coming to make sure all was well. "Come in," Annabeth called

The door swung open, and Elisa slipped in, her tiny frame immediately dwarfed by the size of everything in the room. This didn't faze her in the slightest; she merely shut the door and launched herself across the chamber, flinging herself onto the foot of Annabeth's bed. At that moment, she looked less like a blushing bride and more like a mischievous child whose favorite cousin had come to visit. "Wake up!" she exclaimed gleefully, grabbing Annabeth's feet. "Almost all of the weekend guests are here, and soon it's going to be time to meet everyone."

"I'm awake," Annabeth assured her, surprised to see how true that was. She felt more alert and alive than she had felt in a long time. "Really, I'm awake. I'm ready."

"_I'm _not!" Elisa stretched out, catlike. "Once I go down there, my time won't be my own, not ever again."

"That's not exactly a cheerful thought to be having on your wedding weekend," Annabeth pointed out. "Not that I'm an expert or anything, but shouldn't you be thrilled that you're spending the rest of your life with Bradford?"

"I'm thrilled about that. It's the rest of them that I'm dreading." Elisa gestured vaguely towards the door. "All of the family, all of the friends, all of the enemies. The reporters, the public, Gregory's constituency. I'm marrying the heir to a considerable family fortune and dynasty. After the wedding, everything changes." Her frank gaze captured Annabeth's attention. "It'd be the same for you…maybe worse."

"That's really not anything any of us need to worry about," Annabeth assured her. "It's certainly not something I've thought about." It wasn't, either—or at least, it hadn't been up until that point.

Elisa quirked an eyebrow, wordlessly conveying disbelief.

"I'm serious!" Annabeth protested. "Bruce and I haven't even been seeing each other that long. It's _hardly _serious between us."

"Says you," Elisa pointed out. "But have you ever stopped to think Bruce might see it differently? Ever think that he might be falling in love with you?"

"Unlikely." Annabeth dismissed the possibility out of hand. "Bruce is a truly wonderful person, and I'll be the first to admit that I judged him unfairly in the beginning. But he is _not _falling in love with me. We barely know each other. And god knows, we lead very different lives."

Elisa chewed on this for a moment. "Is it possible that you're falling in love with him?"

Annabeth actually threw back her head and laughed, a surprising reaction coming from someone normally so dour. "Elisa, you're very sweet. You want everyone to be as happy as you."

"Not everyone—just the people I know deserve it."

"Well, you just worry about you and Bradford. Bruce and I will have to muddle through on our own." Annabeth smiled at her earnest friend. "Beside, we're a lost cause. There's no room in my life for love."

"That's a horrible thing to say!"

"Which makes it no less true. What's the true lesson in _Romeo and Juliet?" _Annabeth didn't wait for an answer. "That true love is a tragedy. It's messy and complicated and for me—for _me, _Elisa, not you—it's not worth it."

Elisa's expression was filled with equal parts exasperation and pity. "Is this something you've shared with Bruce?"

"Hell, no," Annabeth snorted. "It's certainly not something that's ever come up in conversation: 'Thanks for dinner, Bruce, and by the way, don't bother falling in love with me. You'd have more fun hugging a hedgehog.'" Annabeth's chin was stuck out, a characteristic signal of her defiance.

Elisa recognized false bravado when she saw it. "You sure about that?"

Her gentle voice, her genuine question, caught Annabeth a little off-guard, and she didn't answer right away. She thought of Bruce, thought of the conflicting emotions that seemed to spring up whenever she thought too long about him. "No," she admitted. "No, I'm not sure about that. I'm not sure about anything, except that I could see myself falling for Bruce if I let it happen."

"If you let it happen?" Elisa repeated this disbelievingly. "Annabeth de Burgh, love isn't something you _let _happen. It happens regardless of what we want, and it happens usually at the least convenient time. _L__isten to me." _She reached over and seized Annabeth's hands and squeezed them for emphasis. "Can't you at least give him a chance? I mean, didn't he give you a chance? Several, really—I know how often you tried to verbally castrate him. He's a good man, you're a good woman. What else is there?"

For Elisa, it was so simple, so painfully, sweetly simple. And as deluded as Annabeth knew the hopeful bride was, she didn't have it in her to refuse Elisa, at least not outright. "Things are complicated, Elisa. But I'll tell you what—I _will _think about what you said. We can't keep carrying on like this if there's nothing that is going to come of it, I'm going to decide this weekend, one way or another." Even as Annabeth uttered the words, they took her by surprise. It wasn't anything she had been planning, up until now, at least. But it made sense. "But I will think about what you said. All options are on the table." And surprisingly, this was true, too.

Still, Elisa wasn't completely satisfied. "God help you, Annabeth de Burgh. You're a cold-hearted wretch of a woman. I don't know whether I'm disgusted or admiring."

"Don't be either. Just let me go down my long and lonely road." Annabeth finally threw back the covers and slid out of bed. She misjudged the distance between bed and floor, however, and ended up hitting the floor in an undignified heap.

"There are steps on the other side of the bed, you know," Elisa pointed out helpfully as she watched Annabeth struggle to her feet.

"I prefer to make my own mistakes and learn from them."

"That much is obvious," Elisa smirked.

"What?" Annabeth demanded, her patience finally tapped. "Is it so bad that I don't want to get hurt? That I don't want Bruce to get hurt? I'm married to my job, Elisa, and it's not exactly an uncomplicated marriage. Bruce is, in his own sheltered way, an innocent. And I don't want him to get tainted with the filth that I see on a daily basis. He's one of the few clean, bright, beautiful things in that godforsaken city, and god help me, that's part of why I love him."

Elisa looked at Annabeth, startled, and Annabeth clapped her hand over her mouth. "Shit."

In the passage that joined Annabeth's bedchamber with the Heppelwhite suite in which Bruce was lodged, the subject of Annabeth and Elisa's terse conversation lingered, an unwilling witness to all that had passed between them, thanks to the highly effective surveillance equipment he had just finished laying.

"Shit," Bruce muttered, unconsciously echoing Annabeth. Stealthily he stole backwards, retreating to his suite. Once within his own rooms, he firmly shut the door, closeting himself away from the confidences he had just overheard. Only then did he turn around to face Alfred, seated patiently by the fire.

"Well," Bruce said enigmatically, "we know the equipment works."

Bellingham Manor may have been a magnificent shrine to priceless antiques, but as Annabeth privately suspected, it also harbored every convenience and modernization that money could buy, no doubt supplied at no small expense to the Winston family coffers. This suspicion was confirmed as Annabeth stood in the doorway of her bathroom and gazed at the sunken tub of Italian marble, the gleaming glass-enclosed shower, the dual sinks with the copper fixtures, and the heated towel racks. As she gazed at the luxuries surrounding her, she could not help but to compare them to the semi-communal bathrooms of Safe Haven, the problematic plumbing, the chipped porcelain, the shabby towels, and the women who were grateful for even that much.

Well, eschewing these fripperies wouldn't correct the imbalance, and with that thought, Annabeth set about readying herself for the evening ahead. Elisa had taken herself off to track down Bradford, but not before tactfully pointing out to Annabeth that she might wish to fix her bedhead before the reception and supper. Now, as Annabeth gazed into the ruthlessly lit mirrors, she could see exactly what Elisa had been delicately hinting at...her hair was mussed from the nap, her clothes were wrinkled, and she quite simply looked as though she had been tussling with a Gotham sewer rat. Without another second's hesitation, she turned to the bathtub and began fiddling with the faucets. Only when steaming water was streaming from the taps did she turn her attention and curiosity to the other details of the room.

Jewel-toned towels and face flannels, impeccably folded, lined the shelves, next to thick glass bottles containing bath products of unpronouncably French origin. Rich, spicy smells wafted from a dish of fresh potpourri placed between the sinks, and on a wide ledge over the bathtub, a bowl of chocolates, a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, and two glasses had been carefully placed, and now awaited appreciation. Annabeth couldn't help but to shake her head and chuckle; whether Victoria approached each guest bedchamber with this much attention, or whether she was attempting to make some extremely unsubtle hints, it required enormous attention and creativity. Victoria was, without question, a grand dame of the highest order.

Slowly, Annabeth began to peel away her clothes and left them discarded on the floor. Heavy steam filled the bathroom, but every now and then, clouds of steam parted enough to allow her a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her limbs—perhaps just a trifle too thin, due to her recent spartan ways—gleamed, pale, under the bright lights, but she still had a few curves where they counted, and thankfully, gravity had not yet begun to work against her.

"Enough," she scolded herself aloud, the scorn audible in her voice. She did not often lapse into vanity—it seemed an absurd thing to do. She wasn't one of the socialites she had become accustomed to seeing; she wasn't certainly wasn't a beautiful society wife, like Victoria. She knew that her face wasn't her fortune—but still, she wouldn't scare away small children or puppies, either.

Having indulged in this little bit of pride, she slipped into the tub and let the piping hot water wash over her limbs. Hers was a life of few luxuries, and so this moment of idleness, while feeling extremely decadent, was enough of a novelty for her to revel in it, at least for a while. So revel she did, and imagined the scene of tightly controlled chaos which she had no doubt was unfolding in the house around her. In the suite next door, Bruce was probably preparing for the dinner as Alfred hovered nearby, assisting with as much wry commentary as sensible advice. Bradford and Elisa were probably squirrelled away somewhere, enjoying their last few moments of peace and freedom together before their lives altered forever. And Gregory and Victoria were no doubt alternating between entertaining the guests who had descended upon them and supervising the small army of extra help they had hired to execute the weekend's festivities.

The stone walls of Bellingham were too thick to allow any sort of untoward or disruptive noise to annoy its inhabitants, so all of these speculations were just that—speculations. And the longer Annabeth stayed soaking in the tub, the longer she was removed from the life carrying on beyond the bathroom. She needed time to sort through the things she had observed—since coming to Bellingham, she had begun to come to some uncomfortable realizations. The most evident one was that she was finally beginning to see just how much her life had changed since she had begun spending time with Bruce. Several months ago, hers was a spartan life of work and...more work, alleviated by the small flashes of satisfaction she got when things went right with her job, and the small bouts of laughter she shared with Janey. There was no time for luxury, or social activities, or any pleasures; she had forced herself, over the years, to adopt the life of a secular nun.

And then there was Bruce, who had blundered into her world, almost as if by accident, throwing her life off its axis, whisking her into an almost entirely different plane of existence, populated with politicians, power-players, socialites, celebrities, and eccentrics, whose only one point of commonality was their overabundance of money and the ennui that accompanied it. Certainly, Annabeth had seen his family home, his family wealth, had even benefited from it through the lavish dinners and extravagant galas he threw, but up until now, she had held herself somewhat aloof, somewhat detached. Ultimately, it had been no concern of hers...but here in the rarified atmosphere of Bellingham, far removed from the pressing concerns of mundane life, Annabeth began to wonder how wise her detachment had been. If any sort of attachment was truly forming between her and Bruce, wasn't it time for her to really consider how she could reasonably fit into this world of his?

And if he could even fit into hers at all?

* * *

Annabeth was only partly correct—Bruce was preparing for the evening, but not in the way that she had assumed. Picking out an outfit was the least of his and Alfred's concerns; more important was that Bruce managed to get himself up into it without falling apart.

"How much time do we have?" Bruce asked, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow his head was buried in. He was sprawled across the bed, facedown, to allow Alfred to tend to his back. The bruising had not yet disappeared, nor even diminished that much, and Alfred had refused to come to Bellingham unless Bruce allowed him to continue tending to the injuries.

"Not enough time to get you up to snuff, Master Wayne," Alfred sighed. "Now hold still while I put ice packs on your back. The kitchen staff gave me some odd looks, I can tell you that. I told them you were chilling about fifty bottles of champagne for the _real _party later."

Bruce chuckled, but then winced as he registered the pain. Putting up a front for Victoria and Annabeth and the rest of the crowds was exhausting, and this was the only time he had to let down his guard. "Sometimes I think you enjoy promoting my reputation as a hedonist."

"Well, it certainly wasn't what your parents had in mind when they said they wanted you to have a lively life," Alfred sighed. "Oh dear, is that _pus?_

Bruce sat up, but saw Alfred smirking. "I get my kicks where I can, sir."

The bed chamber was silent as Bruce rested and Alfred puttered about, every now and then casting worried looks at Bruce's back. The encounter The Batman had had with Boy-o had been too close for anyone's comfort, and frankly, he had sustained injuries extensive enough to have kept him out for the count for a week at least. His chest was healing fairly quickly, although the bruising remained, and the same held true for his back. A maze of purple and blue welts covered the majority of his skin, front and back. It was an act of conscious discipline, more than anything else, that kept Bruce from wincing from the almost constant pain that every movement gave him, and Alfred knew it. As he applied the ice packs to Bruce's back, he opened his mouth to speak, to warn, to admonish, but then closed up, thinking the better of it.

Finally, though, he couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer. "How would you explain this to Miss Annabeth?"

Bruce snorted. "Hardly a problem, Alfred. Do you see her anywhere around?"

"As a matter of fact, sir, I do." Alfred rested his hand briefly on the ice packs to ascertain that they were still cold enough. "She's been all around your life lately. She's not fifty feet away. If this carries on much longer, she's bound to notice the...oddities. The absences. The bruises. Goodness knows, she already notices the funny moods you get into. She's already part of your life, superficially; it's about time you figure how she _really _fits in. "

At this, Alfred fell silent and drifted away to attend to other things, perhaps the surveillance equipment, or to review Bruce's tuxedo for the night. In a little bit, no doubt he would come back to attend to Bruce's wounds even further, or perhaps offer another one of his pithy observations. But the most important thing, Alfred had already done—he had been Bruce's conscience, his common sense, his voice of reason that pointed out the uncomfortable truths. Only damned catch was that he only pointed out the problems; he never pointed out the answers.

Now _that _would be a real superhero.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, a tentative knock sounded on the door leading from Annabeth's room to the passageway connecting it to Bruce's suite. Slowly, carefully, she made her way over, hobbled by the slinky evening gown Janey had packed, as well as the ridiculous stilettos that had also been foisted upon her. They added a few inches of badly-needed height to her small frame, but also made for precarious walking. Even the ridiculous heels could not alter Annabeth's somewhat belligerent swagger, however, and when she pulled the door open to admit the two men into her room, they could see that the tottering heels only added to her unique presence.

Unbidden, Bruce let out a low whistle as he took in Annabeth's appearance. She may not have had the elegance or the polished beauty of most of the socialites of his acquaintance, but she _did _have an instinctive grace and an uncultivated dignity, in addition to her quiet prettiness. And when she looked up at him with those eyes, with that fearless, forthright gaze, he quite literally felt his heart give an unwelcome clench. Hers was a gown of elegant, clinging indigo silk, hugging all the right curves, and her hair had somehow been twisted back into an elaborate knot. She was a disconcerting combination of the rough Annabeth he had grown to know, and a sleek and elegant Annabeth that he had only rarely met.

Finally, he recovered his wits enough to tell her, "You're lovely."

"I won't disgrace you," Annabeth smiled. She accepted the arm that Bruce offered her. "Shall we go down? Except..." she hesitated for a moment. "I think you'll need to lead the way. I'm not sure I can find my way out of this room." And just like that, once more, she was the sweet, familiar Annabeth that he knew.

Together, the three of them made their way from the bedchambers, Annabeth on Bruce's arm, and Alfred following with his perpetual expression of distant amusement. Bruce guided the way, and soon they were making their way down the corridor, strolling towards the grand staircase. As they came closer, the low murmur of dozens of genteel voices floated up to greet them. It seemed much...busier than the sedate atmosphere that Annabeth had encountered earlier in the day.

"How many people came to this damned thing?" she hissed to Bruce.

He shrugged off-handedly. "All the people that are staying at the manor, plus a few score people who are staying in the closest town. Movers and shakers-politicians, socialites, people who didn't quite make the cut for an invitation for the whole weekend, but wanted to make it for as much of the free booze as possible." Bruce pulled a face as he said this, making it clear what he thought of them.

Since the first soiree to which Bruce had invited Annabeth, she had become more and more accustomed to the glitz and glamor and show of the Gotham elite, and as they made their way down the staircase and through the main corridor into the Long Gallery, it became obvious just how confident Annabeth had become. Bruce and Alfred watched, bemused, as she detached herself from their side and made her way into the crowd of people who had turned out for the society event of the year.

"It appears that you have done your job quite well, Master Wayne," Alfred observed. "Miss de Burgh has become quite the swan."

"And it looks as though she's migrating away." Bruce watched her as she disappeared into the crowd. "This is getting to be rather preposterous, Alfred. Why am I prolonging this?" A waiter passed by with a trayful of crystal champagne flutes, and Bruce neatly snagged two of them, one of which he passed to Alfred. "Why do I continue to carry this on?"

"Carry on what, exactly, sir?" Alfred took the tiniest of sips as they began to circulate through the crowds, taking care to pass by a potted tree-Alfred could only pray that it was no exceedingly rare specimen-for Bruce to swiftly dump the contents of his glass into it.

"This pretense at normalcy." Bruce glanced around the room, and caught a glimpse of Annabeth as she joined a group of lobbyists over by the Steinway concert grand piano. Her poise was confident, her head proudly erect, and her smile seemingly genuine; she was clearly more in her element with each passing moment. "I'm misleading Annabeth, making her think I'm something I'm not. She's only going to get hurt."

Alfred took another sip of champagne, this one a little larger. "Are we talking about the same Annabeth?" He gestured towards her. "Look at her, sir." Together they studied her, and then Alfred spoke again. "You know, Master Wayne, I think Miss de Burgh is quite a bit similar to you. I think she's got her goals, I think she wants to save Gotham, and I think it's difficult for her to deviate from that too much. But she's got more courage than anyone I've ever seen. _And_ she hasn't left you yet." Alfred fixed Bruce with a penetrating stare. "It would be just as hard for her to fall in love as it would be for you...but she isn't running. We know the Batman has courage...but what about Bruce Wayne?"

"This has nothing to do with courage!" Bruce protested, stung by Alfred's implications. "This is about making the right decision, which isn't always the easy one."

"That's poppycock, and you know it." Alfred had lost patience. "The _easy _thing to do would be to run away and leave Annabeth and whatever little romance the two of you have going on. The _hard _thing to do is to try to figure out how to make it work with...your other life. _That's _what will take courage."

Another champagne tray passed by, but this time, when Bruce snagged the glass, its contents did not make their way into any unsuspecting foliage.

* * *

As the evening wore on, more and more people joined the party, eager to partake in the legendary Winston hospitality. Time and again, Bruce caught a glimpse of Annabeth as she made the circuit, talking, laughing, paying attention to all in her company. It was no longer possible for him to determine whether she was sought after for the novelty of being his girlfriend, or for the pleasure and interest of her own company.

Either way, it was a far cry from the prickly, chippy woman he had met back in the late summer. At one point, she glanced over at him, and their eyes met for a prolonged and strange moment. Just then, Bruce knew she was as surprised as he was by the transformation she had undergone.

"Annabeth!" Elisa, caught up in the excitement of her wedding weekend festivities, had thrown back more than a few glasses of bubbly, and her eyes sparkled joyously. "You and Bruce have been ignoring each other all night. At least _try _to pretend that the two of you are dating." She was closer to the truth than she realized, but that was not something she was sober enough to clue into. She clamped her hand around Annabeth's wrist and, surprisingly strong for such a tiny person, began hauling Annabeth along. "Consider this an intervention. You don't know how to run your life, so we're going to do it for you." She began to haul Annabeth across the room, wending and winding their way through clusters of revelers, not allowing Annabeth to wriggle free until they were standing by Bruce.

"Bruce!" Elisa tapped him on the arm, less gently than she thought. "Bruce, _you _broughtAnnabeth with you, _you_ should be squiring her around!" A few tendrils of hair escaped from her upswept hair and charmingly framed her flushed face. "You two make such a lovely couple!" She beamed up at him, and then over at Annabeth, and then tottered off, in search of more champagne, or Bradford, or both.

As soon as she was far enough away, Bruce made surreptitious tippling motions, and Annabeth nodded in confirmation. "She's rather soused, I'm afraid." Annabeth glanced sharply at the almost-full glass in Bruce's hand. "You appear to be refraining, however."

"For the most part," Bruce agreed. "And you?"

"Stopped almost an hour ago. It's funnier to stay sober and watch everyone else."

They stood there, side by side, silently observing the crowds for a moment, and then Annabeth turned to Bruce. "Sorry for disappearing on you this evening...I...just figured..."

"Figured what?"

"Bruce!"

Incredibly, Elisa had already returned, with another young couple in tow. "I've been meaning to introduce you...this is Anthony de la Cruz, Victoria's interior design consultant. He's been begging me for an introduction.

"Not entirely true, you little wretch," the man laughed. He was tall, slender, divinely handsome, and upon hearing him speak six words, Annabeth could see that he was openly, flamingly gay. "I've been wanting the name of the person who designed the public spaces of Wayne Towers. I'm dying to scalp him for my firm. And I'm dying to talk to the person in charge of the renovations of Wayne Manor."

"_Please, _do us all a favor and tell him. He hasn't stopped going on about it since he found out you were coming." This came from the woman who was by his side, a stunning beauty who smiled as she spoke. Unlike so many of the people present, her smile seemed genuine. Annabeth focused on her, frowing; something seemed painfully familiar about her. And then, realization struck her, actually sent a cold shock through her. Although the glittering, brightly-lit rooms of Bellingham Manor were a long way off from the filthiest streets of Gotham, the disparate contexts could not detract from what quickly became glaringly obvious to Annabeth: she was looking into the eyes of the mystery woman who had been feeding her and the Batman information.

Time suspended as worlds collided. The noise faded into the background as the two women stared at each other, each silently assessing the situation. All the homesickness Annabeth may have been entertaining was washed away as the murky relationship she had with Gotham spewed, at least figuratively, all over the polished marble floor of Annabeth's double life.

She became conscious, once more, of Bruce, swaying with ever-so-slight drunkenness beside her, and forced herself to focus on the gravity of the situation at hand. She couldn't let Bruce be exposed to the complicated danger that had begun to taint her life. He didn't deserve it, and more to the point, hadn't asked for it, and would not know how to handle it even if he wanted to. She began to think ahead, plot, try to figure out how she could disentangle the poor man before things got any messier.

_Bet the Batman doesn't have to worry about this shit, _she thought randomly, before ruthlessly quashing the thought.

"This is Trinity, my lovely date for the weekend," Anthony was saying, oblivious to any tension. "My partner's in London for a trade show—_why _he feels the need to keep up with the latest developments in S&M merchandise, I'll never know-and I simply couldn't come to this alone. So when Trinity here called, sniffing around for an invitation, I thought, _perfecto!_ A perfectly beautiful date for a perfectly beautiful weekend."

"Absolutely," Bruce agreed, the soul of gallantry. "She's a vision...one of them, anyway." He winked rougishly at Annabeth.

_Oh, lord. _In vain, Annabeth scanned the crowds for Alfred. Where the hell had he gotten to? The one time when his hovering, tactful omnipresence was essential, the man was no where in sight. In desperation, she turned to Bruce and gave him what she hoped was her most winning smile. "Why don't you get us some more champagne?"

"I've already had enough, don't you think?" Bruce smiled goofily as he deliberately misinterpreted her question. "So, Trinity...it _is_Trinity, right?" He fixed her with his piercing gaze. "Have we met somewhere before? You look _very _familiar to me."

Anthony spat out a mouthful of champagne. Annabeth looked wildly around, half looking for Alfred, or the nearest drapery swag that could double as a noose. Trinity, however, was unperturbed, and merely smiled with faint scorn. "I'm an independent entrepreneur, Mr. Wayne, and I never forget a name or a face. This is the first time we've met."

"Bloody well hope so," Anthony smirked into his glass.

It was an awkward situation for Annabeth, but although she didn't know it, it was even moreso for Bruce. The layers of complexity were substantial, and only he understood just how much. Annabeth and Trinity had now encountered each other, and were struggling to reveal nothing untoward, and Annabeth was trying desperately to hide the depths of her hidden life...not realizing that _he _lurked at the dark heart of those depths. And of course Trinity had no idea who he truly was...

The tension thickened. And then Trinity turned her attention to Annabeth, and Annabeth could see how and why Trinity had been so successful in her chosen...career. Her beauty was stunning, a keen intellect burned in her eyes, and when she chose to turn it on, her charm was substantial. That charm was now directed at Annabeth, who could do nothing but graciously go along with it.

"You have the advantage over me," Trinity told Annabeth. "It's been a while since I've been in this crowd." She flashed Bruce and Anthony a devastating smile as she entwined her arm though Annabeth's. "You gentlemen wouldn't mind if I borrowed Annabeth for a little bit? I'd like to take her on a stroll so she can fill me in on all the gossip."

Without waiting for a response, she steered Annabeth away from them and maneuvered her back into the thick of the crowds. As soon as Annabeth was certain they were out of the earshot of Bruce, she tugged free from Trinity and glared. "What the hell?"

"Did you really want me spilling the story about your midnight rendezvous to your boyfriend back there?" Trinity was uncowed by Annabeth's anger. "In my job, it pays to be discreet."

"Yeah?" Annabeth's hackles were raised and her defenses were up. "How's that paying these days?"

Fifteen feet away, Alfred finally joined Bruce's side. "Everything alright, sir?"

"Not sure." Bruce glanced around, made sure the remaining members of their group had lost interest and moved on. "But it looks like Annabeth might be about to throw down, Gotham-style." He jerked his head towards them as he began to inch closer.

Trinity was speaking low and quickly. "Is there somewhere more private we can talk? Now that you know who I am, I suppose clandestine meetings with you and your batty friend aren't necessary anymore, but it wouldn't hurt to fly under the radar, either."

"Keep your voice down." Annabeth glanced around. "First, consorting with him could get me into a lot of trouble with some pissy cops. Second, he's no friend of mine, and third, I never asked for any meetings with either of you."

"Well, friends or not, looks like you're stuck with both of us." Trinity ran a hand over her glossy golden locks and offered a dazzling smile to a portly older gentleman as he ambled past, no doubt in search for the latest tray of hors d'oeuvres that had been marched out from the kitchen. "Tell you what. Around three a.m., meet me in the corridor outside your suite. For god's sake, be quiet and discreet. There's going to be a lot of bed-hopping going on, so don't be surprised if you run into others out in the hall. Best rule of thumb: don't ask, don't tell."

"Dear god, what sort of den of iniquity is this?"

"Just another night with a few scores of people with too much money and too little sense." Trinity's eyes alighted on the group of people closest to them. They were, by this point, unremarkable to Annabeth; simply a group of well-heeled, bright young things. "Poor fools are completely oblivious. They've got no idea. Never forget that, Annabeth-you'll never be one of them. And that's a good thing."

"Thanks for the uplifting thought." Annabeth studied Trinity more closely; under the carefully-polished veneer, there was a fiercely intelligent woman. "Who the hell are you to judge?" _And how the hell did I end up defending these people?_

Ever-so-slightly, Trinity gestured towards the group they had been studying before. "See that woman? The one with the beehive hair?"

"Yes," Annabeth said cautiously, not sure where this was going.

"That's Corrine Forsythe-Aston. She's the great-great-great granddaughter of Richard Forsythe, the cloth manufacturer who inspired Gotham's textiles trade. Made a fortune on the backs of several generations of indigent immigrants, mainly Polish and German. It was after a pretty bad accident at his factory-which killed seven children, by the way-that they passed legislation more closely monitoring labor conditions. And that gentleman standing next to her...the one in the white tux...that's her husband. Jasper Aston...he owns about ten blocks of tenements down in the Narrows...and those are just two examples of the _elite _of Gotham."

"If you're so disgusted by them, why the hell don't you just walk away from it?" Annabeth challenged her.

"Oh, I didn't meant to come across as though I was judging them...after all, this is America, and I'm an American, and so it goes. I'm not thrilled about it, but you don't see me walking away, either. It's the capitalist system, Annabeth, and all of us, in one way or another, profit from it. Including you." Trinity eyeballed Annabeth's gown. "Where was that manufactured, anyway?"

Wisely, Annabeth remained silent. She had been given plenty of food for thought, and didn't think she had room in her stomach for any more.


	31. Chapter 31

Annabeth was no angel, but there were still a few places she feared to tread.

She had spent countless nights prowling the most dangerous streets, alleys, and gutters of Gotham, had gone toe-to-toe with some of the surliest pimps and no-accounts; had even held her own in verbal sparring matches with the Batman, but this—roaming the sister building to Castle Dracula—was something new again.

By two a.m., most of the revelers had returned to town or their own rooms—or someone else's, if Trinity was to be believed. By two-thirty, the electrical candelabras lining the aged walls had dimmed out, and the previously illuminated corridors were plunged into another world, one of unfamiliar shadows, unidentified rustlings, and an unpleasant sense of foreboding. Into this strange, creepy world Annabeth emerged—by hesitant tiptoe, rather than headlong plunge—and not without some trepidation.

She wasn't even particularly sure where she was going. Trinity had said that her room was further down the corridor, same floor, same wing, but robbed of all light, Annabeth quickly lost her bearings.

_Even the Narrows has better lighting than this, _Annabeth thought crossly as she slowly extended a hand into murky blackness, feeling ahead for furniture, walls, priceless antiques, accommodating ghosts willing to loan her some ectoplasm—anything, really, to help her see. _What the hell kind of slum is this? Even the Narrows have their standards._ Annabeth smiled grimly as she thought this, and wondered how Victoria would feel to learn her beloved home had come up short.

Thus occupied, she almost missed the tiny flash of light in the darkness ahead. Annabeth went still, taut, as she listened, strained against the darkness, trying to extract any sort of sound or indication of what she was about to encounter. _Friend or foe? _It was becoming more and more difficult to tell the difference. Tentatively, she took a step forward...and almost immediately collided with warm, living flesh. Only years of discipline and experience as a lady of Gotham kept her from crying out.

"Jesus!"

Another quick flash of light, and Annabeth caught a flash of Trinity's pale face before the light extinguished.

"How the hell did you manage to survive in Gotham if you didn't have the good sense to bring a flashlight?" Trinity hissed before closing a hand around Annabeth's wrist. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Annabeth hissed back, but Trinity didn't answer; her pace was too fast and her concentration was focused on navigating through the darkness. She was intent on leading them deeper into Bellingham Manor, only occasionally flicking on her flashlight to assess her surroundings. Annabeth silently despaired of ever finding her way back to her room.

Finally, after shuffling up and down countless steps and through many creaking doors, Trinity halted.

"Where the hell are we?" Annabeth demanded, only barely keeping her voice at the level of a harsh whisper.

"The family wing, second floor. Holy christ, woman, how the hell do you find your way around Gotham?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," Annabeth admitted as she peered around into the darkness. "Why are we here? And how do you know your way around here so well?"

"We're here because this is where Victoria and Gregory and Bradford and Elisa stay. Victoria likes to keep the family separate from all the debauchery. There's less chance of running into anyone here. And I know my way around here because I've probably visited here more than your goofy souse of a boyfriend ever did. The polite fiction used to be that I was a socialite with political interests."

"Used to be?" Annabeth echoed. "What...what were you here for?"

"Oh, Gregory had a cousin who was a client of mine for a good few years. Really helped me get a leg up in Gotham society."

Annabeth thought about the cool, impenetrable Victoria and shook her head in incomprehension. "I'll never understand this place...never understand these people."

"Better figure that out now, rather than later. Remember: you're not one of them, de Burgh. You'll never be. You can say it's because you're 'genuine', or a hard-working woman, or whatever euphemism you choose, but really, it's so much more than that. It's a lifestyle, a way of thinking...Anyway, it was who I _used to be_ who I was until that goddamned gang took me out of circulation." Trinity's voice, while by no means friendly before, turned positively flinty. "In my line of work, at my level, you don't want to have a low profile for long. Scoring an invitation this weekend was as much about getting myself seen as it was about contacting you."

"Okay, fine. You contacted me. You revealed your true identity. What now? What do you know?"

"Seth Percival."

Annabeth frowned, trying to place the name. And then, "Oh yes. I know him-encountered him once or twice around town...wait. You _know _him? Like, in the Biblical sense?"

"Don't be a ninny. No, thank god, not now, not ever. The man's a cold fish, and a bastard besides." Even in the dark, Annabeth could sense Trinity's shudder of distaste. "So you know who I'm talking about."

"Yes, unfortunately. He's rather odious, I agree."

"More than you know. I think he's involved."

It took a moment for Trinity's words to sink in. "Involved, as in, involved on all the problems we've been having with the Arrows? The women?" Annabeth struggled to reconcile her memories of the smarmy man with the sordid violence that had been unfolding, and found that it was not a difficult leap of the imagination. Still..."You sure about that?"

"Not at all. But remember...I told you and your winged rodent friend that I overheard those men talking about someone backing the Arrows. Someone with power, and money, and connections. And the name that I overheard sounded something like 'Beth Purcell.'"

"Seth Percival." Annabeth repeated the name, and then gasped. "Shit. _Shit. _He's been wanting Bruce to go in with him-invest in some business deal. Do you think that's it? I think he's actually here this weekend."

"He is, along with that poor cow of a wife of his. And I haven't got a clue if that's what he's wanting to score Wayne's backing on. But if your pretty boyfriend gets himself caught up into this, I'm not waiting for that batguy to castrate him; I'll do it myself."

"Get in line." Annabeth hated to think of the possibility of Bruce becoming involved, however unintentionally. "I can talk to him," she said, but not without some doubt. "But we don't talk about his businesses, and he sure as hell doesn't know how deep I am into all this crap. I think underneath it all, he's a pretty straight-laced kind of guy. Law-abiding."

"Not my problem," Trinity said. "I don't even know for sure that it's Percival. I _do _know that the Arrows are starting to tighten their grip, and since that creepy pimp of theirs got arrested, they're going to have to make sure this operation of theirs goes down soon. But...it would be useful to know if Percival's trying to get anyone from this crowd into it."

"I hope you're not suggesting I use Bruce Wayne as _bait." _It was not a tempting idea. Even as she contemplated the duplicity of it, Annabeth became suddenly homesick for Gotham, for Safe Haven, for Donna and Maya and Janey, and even for the Batman. All of them, their motives, their intentions, their actions—seemed so much more transparent than those of the people who now slumbered around and above her. At least in Gotham, she knew where she stood. At least in Gotham, she wouldn't feel so stranded and powerless. At least in Gotham, she could contact the Batman.

Trinity was still whispering. "I'm staying for the rest of the weekend...may as well avoid the morass of Gotham as long as possible...but for the rest of the weekend, don't approach me. Don't contact me, don't come looking for me. If Percival's involved, the last thing he needs is to know that I'm consorting with you. He's disgusting, but he's not dumb. I'll contact you if or when I hear anything else...but be smart about this. You know who I am, now, and that could make things very dangerous, for both of us, if we seem to be connected at all. If you come looking for me, and the Arrows tie our names together, I'm dead. You, too."

Annabeth nodded, a futile gesture that went unseen in the darkness. "Be careful."

"I will."

"Are you sure you don't want to come to Safe Haven?" Annabeth blurted out suddenly. Silence was the only response she got for her suggestion, and a more pressing concern immediately crowded out any thoughts of do-goodery. "How do I get back to my room?" she hissed into the darkness. But Trinity was gone.

"Shit."

* * *

By Annabeth's own feeble estimation, more than half an hour had passed, and she was no closer to finding her way back to her part of the Manor. She had likely passed through the guest and family wings each more than once, but it was impossible to know for certain. Even after her eyes had adjusted fully to the darkness, she was only able to discern grey, indistinct shapes, presumably family heirlooms and antiques that she had somehow managed to successfully avoid crashing into. But none of this brought her any closer to her own room.

Finally, Annabeth gave up. It had been a long, exhausting day, and even with her nap in the car and then then later in her bedroom, she was still tired. Her late nights had caught up with her, and she had reached the end of her rope. Plus, the revelations and reminders she had gotten from Trinity did nothing to boost her spirits. Defeated, Annabeth felt around for the nearest wall and slumped down against it.

What on earth was she doing here? She was Annabeth de Burgh, social worker, activist. Not a socialite, for the love of god; who was she fooling? She didn't understand this world, and she certainly didn't fit into it. In fact, the more time she spent in this world, the more she felt like it was pulling her away from her true priorities. There was an entire world of real people—not these loopy rich kids—that needed her help. Trinity had said it herself: _You're not one of them._ She was right. Annabeth was not one of them, nor would she ever be. What more evidence did she need, other than the fact that she was sitting here, aimless and lost inside some ridiculously large and under-heated manor house?

Well, sitting here wasn't going to get the baby bathed. May as well keep going on until she found her way back or until it grew light enough to see. She rose and began moving forward once more. Slowly, with an outstretched hand, she rounded a corner, and almost instantly collided with a hulking mass of flesh. Panic instinctively rose within her and she gave a strangled cry of alarm as a pair of hands gripped her arms.

"Annabeth?"

The hulking mass became a reassuringly solid and familiar presence as Annabeth realized she had, by some miracle, managed to run into none other than Bruce. But still..."What are you doing here? And where the hell is 'here' anyway?"

Bruce chuckled. "You're actually not far from our rooms, although I can see why you'd be a little bit lost. Let's get you back to your bed; you must be freezing." Without thinking, he threw an arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, but he felt her body stiffen defensively. "What's wrong?"

Annabeth exhaled, her breath more of a ragged sob. "Oh...nothing. I just get kinda funny sometimes; it's like I go on autopilot, fight-or-flight." She tried to laugh it off gently. "Hey...you never answered my question. Why were you out and about?"

"Me? I was—I got hungry, so went down to the kitchens for a late night snack." Bruce said this last part almost hesitantly; he had been following Annabeth since she had left her room, but had allowed her to wander about for a while, in the hopes of stumbling across other guests potentially up to no good.

"Sure you weren't trying to sneak off to someone else's room?" Annabeth couldn't resist ribbing him a little. "I hear it's all the rage."

"Maybe it is, but it's not my style. And Alfred's taking messages from anyone who decided to make an unannounced stop to my room-" Bruce fell silent. Although she couldn't see anything, she could feel his body tense, as though he was listening for something.

"What's up?" Annabeth asked, but Bruce shushed her. She listened, and after a few moments, she heard the sound of footsteps. "What's the big deal-"

Before she could say another word, Bruce was hustling her back, into the shadows. She felt him push her against the tapestried wall, and then the tapestry gave way to a darkened alcove behind it. Bruce followed her into the tight, pitch-black space, and _ssshhhhed_, ever so quietly, against her ear. Bewildered, but instinctively knowing not to argue, Annabeth complied, and was rewarded for her efforts. The footsteps grew closer, and soon she distinguish two sets of footfalls, as well as hushed whispers.

"...got a lot riding on this, you know? How do we know this is a sound investment?"

"Sometimes, friend, you have to take a leap of faith. And anyway, we _know _this is a sound investment. What better city than Gotham? Where else can we do this? It's an utter sink, a pit of misery. We'' buy off the right officials, and then who's going to notice? Who's going to care? And if we get Wayne in on it, who is going to fail to follow?"

"Wayne. He's a loose cannon, god only knows if he'll go for this."

Annabeth glanced at Bruce, crammed close beside her, although in the darkness, any chance for studying his reaction was futile.

"Even if Wayne decides not to join, there's still plenty who will. It's already fairly well underway; at this point, there's plenty of capital, it's just a question of how much bigger we want it to get..._how much more _we want to make."

The voices faded into the darkness as the two unknown men moved on. Annabeth immediately moved to pull back the tapestry, but Bruce's hand locked around her wrist, holding her back. "Wait."

"But they're gone-"

_"Just wait."_

So she waited, for what seemed like ten minutes, but was more likely two, listening to the silence, feeling Bruce's hand loosen from her wrist, still not seeing anything. And then, finally, Bruce shifted, pulled back the tapestry, and looked around.

"They're gone," he told her. "Still...follow me." He grabbed her hand and began to pull her along.

_Oh, lord, here we go again. How is it that everyone seems to know their way through this place? No, better not ask that question, the answer might not be one you like._

Bruce said by way of explanation. "I figured we'd take one of the more unknown routes back to our room. I don't want to run into them...something tells me that they'd want to bend my ear and I'm not really eager to listen."

"Why not, Bruce?" Annabeth demanded. "Why don't you want to see what sort of business they want? Do you know who they were? What's going on? What do they want with you?"

Bruce stopped so suddenly that she bumped into him and staggered backwards. She caught her balance quickly, however, and managed not to fall over.

"What do any of them want with me?" Bruce chuckled. "My money, of course. I'm pretty sure one of them was Seth Percival; he's been after me a while for some silly startup company or another he's got going on-"

"Yeah, about that, Bruce-"

"I mean, come on. How stupid does he think I am?" Bruce resumed walking, and gave Annabeth's hand a tug, indicating she should follow him. "I'm no savvy person when it comes to investments, but even I know a lost cause when I see one."

"Have you...do you even know what sort of investment it is?"

"No." Bruce dismissed this. "But I know Seth Percival, and I'm not sure I'd want to do a lot of business with him, anyway." He stopped again, and this time, he stood in front of a large lead-glass window, and was illuminated by a pale beam of moonlight trickling its way in. "Anyway, why does it matter? Why are you fixated on this, all of a sudden?"

"Why'd you get all surreptitious and hide-y when they showed up?" Annabeth vollied back. "Seems to me like you _wanted _to know who they were and what they were saying".

"Of course I did!" Bruce grinned. "It's always useful to glean information at these little house parties. Knowledge is power...so I'm told."

"That's terribly...Machiavellian of you." Suddenly, exhaustion caught up with Annabeth as the last of the night's adrenaline trickled from her system. "I didn't know you had it in you." She rubbed her eyes wearily. "Seems like the longer I spend with you people, the less I understand humanity."

"Come on," Bruce said, almost tenderly. "It's late, and you're tired. And anyway, what were you doing, flitting about this part of the Manor?"

"Gaining too much knowledge and wanting to be more powerful." Annabeth wanted to cry; who the hell _were _these people? She had been spending more and more time with them over the past few months, getting to know them, and the more time she spent with them, the less she understood. "I just want to get back to my room."

Silently they made their way back through the corridors, Annabeth occasionally stumbling with fatigue. Each time, Bruce reached out and gave her a steadying hand, and they managed to make it back to the guest wing without mishap or any other nocturnal encounters. Finally, they came to a halt outside one of many large doors. "Here we are," Bruce announced.

"How do you know it's mine?"

Bruce pointed, and as she drew close to her door, Annabeth could make out the nameplate that had been mounted on it: "Annabeth de Burgh."

"It's not just for lovers and adulterers," Bruce smiled. "You're not the first one who's has a crappy sense of direction and gotten lost in this crazy place. Sometimes I think it's to help the ghosts, too." He leaned against the door for a moment and looked down at her. "You had an adventurous night, yes? I hope I got you back before curfew." And then he leaned down towards her. "Maybe I can talk you into staying out a little bit later?" Without waiting for her assent, he dipped his head into her and offered a kiss.

Against her better judgment, Annabeth responded, and the passion with which she returned the kiss surprised them both. Without her normal hesitancy, she reached up and captured his face in her hands, feeling just the beginning of stubble as she ran her hands over his skin...

Minutes or hours passed; she couldn't be sure. Eventually, reality intruded, and the real world crowded in once more. They were standing in almost pitch-darkness, in a poorly heated corridor, making out like teenagers. Annabeth began to shiver, although whether in reaction to the cold or surprise at her own passion, she was not sure, and Bruce noticed immediately. "Alright, sneaky lady. Let's get you to bed before you turn into the latest ghost of Bellingham."

He opened the heavy door, which creaked loudly in the stillness, and placed a gentle hand on the small of her back. "In you go."

Just past the threshold, Annabeth turned around. Bruce was still standing in the doorway, illuminated in moonlight, watching her, his face surprisingly inscrutable. Not so for Annabeth-her expression was transparent; her lips parted just a little, as though she were about to ask a question. In fact, the question hung between them, unspoken, but Bruce wasn't going to offer, and she wasn't going to ask.

And so, both of them spent their few remaining hours of sleep, alone in their respective beds, huddled up, chilled by the air, and even moreso by the disturbing knowledge that rotten things were afoot, and a change of scenery made nary a difference.

* * *

Too soon, Annabeth was awake. Although, perhaps awake wasn't the best word for it; to have awakened implied that she had been sleeping, and she hadn't been; not very soundly, anyway. After she had softly closed the door to her chamber, leaving Bruce on the other side, she had foolishly been tempted to jerk the heavy door back open and drag him in. Good sense—or was it prudery? or the desire to avoid looking a fool?—had prevailed, however, and she had slowly, wearily changed into her pajamas, and crawled into bed. Once snuggled under the down comforters, the velvet bed curtains drawn against the cold, Annabeth waited for sleep to come and release her from her crowded thoughts.

Sleep didn't get the message, at least not the sound, restorative sleep for which she had hoped. What followed was a fitful doze, filled with waking dreams, scraps of memories and conversations from the day, and vague anxieties which were once more beginning to crystallize as she contemplated the escalating situation back home in Gotham. Added to this bundle of nerves was her unexpected surge in hormones from her late night encounter with Bruce and their strange parting...finally, having been jolted awake from a strange dream involving the Batman attempting to commandeer Safe Haven and Maya offering him tea from a cornucopia, Annabeth gave up and drew back her bed curtains.

The bedchamber was illuminated only by early grey morning light, but even in the dimness, the regal majesty of her surroundings was still apparent. In college, Annabeth had spent precious little time and attention on her art history courses—they had been merely required prerequisites and distractions from her goal of single-handedly saving the world—but even to her untrained eye, it was apparent to her that she was sleeping in a museum of treasures, masterpieces, antiques...all of which were completely wasted on her. They were little more than clutter, unnecessary items which could potentially distract her from the business of getting on with things.

And so Annabeth got on with things. Thirty minutes after she had awakened, she emerged from the bedchamber, freshly showered and dressed, not in the designer jeans and flashy blouse that Janey had carefully packed, but in her tatty, worn, faded, favorite pair of jeans and a warm, well-worn charcoal sweater, both of which she had secreted into her bag when Janey had been distracted. Her feet were shod in her standard-issue combat boots, and _thunked_ solidly against the floor. She looked like...well, like she was a Gotham native, which she supposed she was. One thing had become clear last night-there were people in this house that were up to no damned good, and she couldn't, _wouldn't _escape her responsibilities, not even here. Especially here. Being girded for battle, prepared for whatever might lie in wait for her—however attractively it was disguised—was the one way Annabeth felt in control.

But what to do?

Snooping appeared to be the most obvious thing, but really, what was there to see? It was people that would have the answers, and all of them were presumably still asleep, burning off the revelries and excesses of the evening before. The chiming of some distant and unseen grandfather clock announced the time as only being half-past six, and the silence that seemed to shroud the guest wing confirmed her suspicions. She was probably the only one wake in the whole damned house; how the hell was she supposed to learn anything?

"Good morning."

The low, cultured voice echoed in the silence of the hall and predictably caused Annabeth to give a tiny jump and utter a distinctly unladylike string of profanities.. That it was in the presence of Victoria that this occurred was all the more fitting; Annabeth cursed her rotten luck as she composed herself and turned to face the seemingly unflappable matriarch. She stood in the hallway, gazing at Annabeth with a slightly amused glint in her eyes. In her arms was a large pile of linen; Annabeth had encountered her in the middle of some household errand.

"Good morning," Annabeth managed after giving her heart a moment to return to its normal pace. "I'm sorry...I thought I was the only one awake."

Victoria smiled knowingly. "That's obvious. And also understandable. People _do _tend to sleep in quite late here at Bellingham; perhaps it's something to do with the sybaritic lifestyle that our guests feel they can indulge in here. Bloody heathens."

"Why aren't you asleep, anyway?" Annabeth asked. "I'd have thought you'd be eager for a respite from the...heathens."

Laughing gently, Victoria shook her head. "Aside from the fact that this _is _my respite from the heathens? Good lord, no. I get very little sleep indeed when we have these house parties-far too much to do." She started to continue on her way down the hall, and beckoned for Annabeth to join her. "Being a hostess is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do."

Annabeth was silent, reflecting on some of the many hard things she had had to do in her own life. Somehow, bringing up any of those instances struck her as neither relevant, nor welcome, nor at all appropriate.

"Take these, for instance." Victoria jerked her head at the pile of linens in her arms. "Hypo-allergenic sheets made out of that new-fangled bamboo material. Would you believe Mayor Garcia chose to tell me _after he went to bed _that our Egyptian cotton sheets—twelve hundred thread count, mind you—were unacceptable. Apparently the only sheets he can sleep on are these wretched things. God only knows where our butler Jeffrey managed to find them. He decided to call me on the house phone—Garcia, I mean, not my butler—at two-thirty in the morning to announce his displeasure. Told me he'd suffer through them for the night but that he absolutely _had _to have these, or he'd be forced to go to the Days Inn in town. How'd that do for Gregory's career? he implied. Wretched man."

"It sounds a bit like you're chief housekeeper," Annabeth said truthfully. It was only after Victoria turned her surprised face to Annabeth that she realized how offensive it might sound. And then Victoria laughed, a proper laugh, not the genteel little chortles of before which had been calculated more to set her audience at ease than to actually express amusement.

"Yes," she admitted. "A bit. But tell me, does the chief housekeeper worry about how one mis-step could adversely impact her husband's political career? Does a housekeeper worry about keeping an eye on the whiskey decanter so that Seth Percival doesn't tipple too much, or make sure that Bradford's cousin Theresa eats her meals without upchucking them before her next modeling shoot, or does the housekeeper keep everyone's affairs and allergies and anal-retentive tendencies straight?"

"I suppose not," Annabeth admitted after a moment. "Not unless you pay the housekeeper a lot."

"Well, I do, but that's beside the point. Anyway, there's no sense in me carrying on like a fishwife; what can't be cured must be endured." Victoria continued her brisk pace, Annabeth trailing bemusedly in her wake, until they reached the end of the corridor, where a massive armoire stood. With swift, sure movements, Victoria opened it and stowed the sheets inside, but not before Annabeth saw an entire shelf of linens, neatly stacked and folded. "There. I put them there for the housemaids; hopefully these will suit his majesty." She smirked. "I suspect that Jeffrey fetched them from the Wal-Mart in town, not that we'd ever share that with Garcia...you see, my dear, the hostess is responsible for quite a bit...not just hard work, mind you, but a lot of discretion."

Of one accord, the two women began to head away from the guest wing. After a moment, Victoria glanced over at Annabeth. "Were you heading in the same direction as me, my dear?"

Annabeth smiled sheepishly. "Not really...I don't know where you're heading. I just wasn't sure how to find my way back to anything."

Again, Victoria laughed. "You, my dear, really are a priceless gem. Well...it will be a few hours yet before everyone wakes up...would you like a tour?"

Annabeth might not have been well-versed in the ways of the aristocracy, but even she knew when she was being granted a great honor. She also knew that this was perhaps the best chance she would get to learn about the others staying at Bellingham that weekend...

"Why not?"

* * *

As the late autumn morning broke, together the two women roamed Bellingham Manor. They made a funny pair; Victoria, tall, thin, and clad in elegant Chanel clothing that Annabeth suspected she had owned for nigh on thirty years, and Annabeth, shorter, looking vaguely like a street urchin, with just a little bit of a swagger.

"I think it's the boots," Victoria observed as Annabeth clomped her way through the vast banquet hall. Her footsteps had echoed rather loudly through there; Annabeth suspected it had something to do with the seventy-foot ceiling.

"Sorry?"

"I think it's the boots," Victoria repeated, and gestured down to Annabeth's feet for emphasis. "That funny walk you have...it's almost a_strut._ I think it's because of the boots."

With just a little bit of self-consciousness, Annabeth glanced down as well, and then shrugged. "Maybe...probably. Something about walking around in these almost requires one to develop a certain type of gait."

"Certainly an audible gait," Victoria agreed. "I suspect that the majority of the guests have been awakened by them...mind you, they probably deserve it. Now. Alfred said you were involved with...charity, was it? Social work?" She paused to brush a bit of dust off of a particularly imposing suit of armor.

"Social work about sums it up." Annabeth watched Victoria warily; was this where the older woman began sizing her up? Sniffing out her intentions towards Bruce? Well, may as well meet her efforts halfway. "It's certainly not the type of thing that Bruce normally gets himself involved in."

"Oh, I don't know. Bruce is usually quite generous with his charities...he's just normally not this hands-on." Victoria turned and faced Annabeth directly, giving her a long, measured look. "Although, I think I can see why he's taken a sudden interest."

_Ah, yes. Definitely trying to assess my intentions. _Annabeth smiled gamely at Victoria. "Well, at first I was a little confused. But he has taken an active interest..." she trailed off. There was no way she could really explain the true reasons for his interest, especially when she was not quite clear on them herself. "Okay, let's just stop dancing around this." She met Victoria's gaze head-on. "I understand why you would be concerned about me. But all I can tell you is that I'm not after the Wayne family fortune. If for no other reason than developing the skills to be a gold-digger would take valuable time away from developing my reputation and career as an Olympic champion ball-buster."

Victoria laughed. "Yes, I had heard that about you. Well, a little bit of that will do Bruce no harm at all...although, you cannot blame me, my dear. Bruce has been...through quite a bit in his life. He's privileged, yes, but somehow, I also think he's one of the poorest people I know. I _do_ feel as though I need to look out for him."

By this time, they had made their way through the banquet hall and meandered their way into the conservatory. Annabeth cast an amused glance at Victoria. "Yes, well, who looks out for me?"

Clearly, that thought had not occurred to Victoria. "Don't you have family to do that?"

"Good god, no." Annabeth almost had to laugh. And then, with a little bit of defiance, she added, "I came from nothing."

"That's an interesting description." Victoria did seem quite intrigued. "Do tell more."

And surprisingly, Annabeth did, a somewhat edited version. It was almost as if Gotham was another life, in another plane of existence which did not touch her here. Unflinchingly, she talked of her father, his drinking, the drugs. The nights when she cried herself to sleep, the nights when there was no one at home to comfort her, the nights when her father and his girlfriends would fight and scream threats that curdled her blood. And then she talked of the foster care system, the run-down public schools, the pervasive fear—of failure, of getting kicked out, of the unknown quantity which would be the next foster family in wait, of the city itself.

"Gotham was so much worse back then," she told Victoria. "The school system, as bad as it is now, was utterly atrocious. At least now, they make sure kids have lunches. They're starting to crack down on the drugs. They're bringing electives back. But when I was a kid...Victoria, it was awful."

"I remember. We were lucky...We could send Bradford to private school." Victoria felt no need to sound apologetic; nor was she bragging. It _was _luck. "Go on."

So Annabeth went on. Of her college years, the less that was said, the better, and so she said precious little. Safe Haven became the focus of the conversation. "They're my family, Victoria. _That's _my home. _That's _where I come from. It's my Safe Haven."

By this time, the two of them had moved beyond the house, and were wandering through the gardens in the morning chill. Neither of them noticed this; Annabeth was caught up in her story, and Victoria was transfixed: she was coming under Annabeth's spell, as all did when she began to preach the gospel she knew and loved so well. "It's actually very hard for me to be away from it," Annabeth confessed as they settled down on an icy-cold wrought iron bench. "I worry about it all the time...it's probably not very healthy."

"Probably not," Victoria agreed. "But we all have our ways of managing. Life can be a bit of a bugger, and we play the hands we're dealt as best we can."

The two of them fell silent, each of them lost to their own thoughts. When Annabeth glanced over at Victoria, she saw the older woman studying her. "Do I meet your approval, ma'am?"

"I think so. But that's hardly the point...Bruce approves, and that's what matters. But do you approve of Bruce?"

This was quite out of left field. "Eh?"

Victoria smiled gently. "My dear, you're no fool. Do you like Bruce Wayne? And do you like him enough to spend your life with him?" Victoria glanced back over her shoulder at the Manor. "Do you like him enough to spend the rest of your life being his hostess? Dealing with the Mayor Garcia of the moment?" She paused. "Do you like him more than Safe Haven?"

There it was, the painful question that had been forming at the back of Annabeth's sharp brain since she set foot into Bellingham Manor. If she became any more involved with Bruce, if it became any more serious...what place could Safe Haven have in her life? It wasn't just the time issue; it was the safety. Whoever ended up the wife of Bruce Wayne would find themselves in the papers even more than she had lately; none of that could bring welcome attention to Safe Haven, a place that was valued for the badly-needed privacy and seclusion it brought to its inhabitants. Annabeth shook her head, trying to dispel the worrisome thoughts that had lodged themselves there. "I don't know." Suddenly the cold morning penetrated her awareness, and she shivered.

"Annabeth!"

Both women looked up to see Bruce making his way across the gardens. "Annabeth, there you are!"

"Oh dear." Victoria glanced at her watch and hastily stood up. "The time certainly got away from me. My dear, thank you for this lovely conversation. I feel so much better now that I know a little more about you." And just like that, she headed back towards the house, leaving Annabeth in a fog of her delicate scent. Victoria passed by Bruce on her path back, and merely gave him an enigmatic smile.

Bruce settled down in the same spot that Victoria had so recently vacated, but took up a great deal more room. Having so recently vacated the house, he was deliciously warm, and before she knew what she was doing, Annabeth was inching towards him, eager to take in his body heat. And then Victoria's words, unwelcome but no less wise for that reason, came back into her mind.

_Dammit._

"Good morning," Bruce smiled. "I wondered where you had gotten to. Thought maybe you had frozen to death in the night."

Annabeth snorted, remembering the biting cold of her bed chambers. "It's not beyond the realm of possibility. Anyway, I took a stroll to warm myself up, and Victoria found me...gave me the tour."

"And you ended up back in the freezing cold." Bruce chuckled, his breath a puff of white vapor hanging in the morning air. "Well, come on, I'll take up the tour where Victoria left off."

They rose from the bench and continued on the leisurely stroll that Victoria had led Annabeth on, following a path that led away from the Manor and further onto the grounds.

"I used to come here a fair amount when I was a kid," Bruce mentioned, his tone carefully casual. "Bradford and I loved to play out here...that was before everything, though."

"What happened after?" Annabeth couldn't help but to be curious; Bruce usually was quite taciturn about his childhood.

"Oh, I still came...just didn't play as much. I came out here, in fact, a lot of the time. Drove Bradford batty...he still wanted a playmate, you see." Bruce smiled a little sadly. "See that?" He gestured towards a statue in the distance. "That's where I used to go to read and think when I came out here."

Annabeth squinted. "Is that a statue of a...dead soldier?"

Bruce followed her gaze. "It is. Lieutenant Roger Winston, I believe his name was. A great-great-uncle or something of Bradford's; he fought in the First World War, went into the mincing machine in early 1918, and was killed almost immediately in Flanders. His mother—I think that would be Bradford's great-great-grandmother—never really got over his death, and had the statue built for him. Made the family hold a memorial for him every year."

"How sad...and just think...in another generation or two, no one will know Roger Winston's story. He'll just be another Winston ancestor, and no one will bother to remember what it was he did, let alone memorialize him. Makes you remember just how impermanent we are."

Her sentiments were actually not that far off from Bruce's, but he wisely refrained from revealing that. "Come on, that's a pretty morose line of thought for the day. And after all, look at the weather; it's already bleak enough."

Annabeth glanced up at the sky and saw that it confirmed Bruce's statement. The day had dawned grey, much as the previous one had done, but these clouds had a more ominous look, a darker grey. "It looks like it's going to storm." Even as she said it, she observed that the wind was rising.

"They _are _calling for it to storm." Bruce, too, glanced up at the clouds. "Let's hope it doesn't, or Victoria might have more guests than she asked for. It's cold enough for it to sleet...people might get stranded here. Ugh, just think...Elisa's wedding day, and nasty weather...how very Gotham."

"Elisa!" All thoughts, all preoccupations flew from Annabeth's head. "I can't believe I forgot...the wedding...she must be getting really stressed."

"Yes, just a little. I think she may have thrown a coffee mug at Bradford at breakfast. She's got good aim, too," Bruce added, almost as an afterthought. "It'll make for interesting wedding pictures. Anyway, that's why I came out...I told her I'd come looking for you. They've started prepping her, and it's going to take a hell of a while, but I think she wanted your company."

As Annabeth rose and headed back to the Manor, she remembered the briefcase of paperwork she had brought to work on over the weekend. Utter folly—there would be no more time to work on that than there would be to investigate the various guests staying for the weekend. _Damn, _Victoria was deadly accurate-what sort of life could Annabeth have by Bruce Wayne's side?

* * *

"I told you, I don't want a fucking tiara! Do I look like a fucking princess to you?"

Annabeth had heard of it happening, of course...perfectly sweet, sane, unpretentious women becoming possessed by some sort of demon as their nuptials approached. "Bridezilla," Donna had called it at Safe Haven, during the few times when they had watched Maya pitch a fit as she went through her wedding plans. It was equally terrifying and fascinating, this phenomenon, and all the more so because the last person Annabeth would have expected it from was Elisa. Tiny, level-headed, cheerful Elisa...now reduced to a harpy in white fluff. She had been fairly docile when they had begun, but over several hours of bathing, dressing, fussing, spritzing, and painting, her nerves had begun to degenerate.

Over Elisa's head, Annabeth's eyes met those of the maid-of-honor, a distant cousin of Bradford's who boasted the rather ridiculous—and incongruous—name of Candy Lou. _"Your turn," _Candy Lou mouthed, and she was right. Candy Lou had intervened the last time, over the rather unexpectedly inflammatory matter of the nail polish color. The poor woman was nearly at her wit's end. Beyond Candy Lou, the hairdresser brought in for the day rolled her eyes heavenward.

"Elisa..." Annabeth began, and trailed off as Elisa trained her burning eyes on her. "Hi! I thought that...ahhh...I think you said you wanted the tiara."

"I changed my goddamned mind. Holy shit! I've got a headache, and you people want me to put that crown on top of all of this?"

The hairdresser turned to Annabeth, torn between amusement and exasperation. This was nothing new to her, it seemed.

"Well...you see...they already styled your hair for the tiara...and it would take a while to re-style it, and we're down to...how long, Candy Lou?"

"Forty-six minutes!" Candy Lou replied promptly.

"I don't give a _fuck." _Elisa crossed her arms. "It's _my _day, I'm going to wear my hair how I goddamned want to!"

The door opened, and Annabeth saw that Victoria had slipped into the room. She was dressed immaculately, in a lavender suit, perfectly tailored to match the colors Elisa and Bradford had chosen months ago. Annabeth became painfully aware of the fact that she was still in the outfit she had donned early that morning...forty-six minutes to the wedding, and she was still in combat boots. Jesus Christ. _What would Alfred do?_

Victoria raised one questioning eyebrow. And it was then that Annabeth saw it-a cut glass decanter and a set of crystal glasses surrounding it...a decanter filled with some amber, and presumably quite alcoholic, liquid. _That's _what Alfred would do.

They all watched as Annabeth poured hefty helpings of the scotch for all of them and passed them around. Last to get a glass was Elisa, and not before Annabeth gave her a stern talking to. "You can drink this or you can wear this, and a lot of it depends on how you spend the next forty-six minutes."

With that, she tossed it back and fled the room. Forty-five minutes left to somehow turn back into a guest for the wedding of the year.

* * *

As Bruce had told Annabeth, the Winstons had converted to Catholicism later during the last century, and with their massive wealth, it was no difficulty to add a rather substantial chapel onto Bellingham. As a result, all of the Winston weddings since had taken place there, and Bradford's and Elisa's was no exception. It was going to be a beautiful, grand affair; that much was obvious based on the elegant dresses and suits and glittering jewelry that filled the chapel. By 4 PM that November afternoon, two hundred guests had gathered in the chapel, and were eagerly awaiting the latest bride. Bruce and Alfred had been two of the first people to enter the chapel; Bruce felt that they would be at an advantage if they could see who would be in attendance.

"We need to keep an eye on Annabeth," Bruce muttered to Alfred as they watched yet another couple take their seat. "God only knows how many Gothamites there are in the crowd, and this is prime opportunity for her to get into mischief."

"Quite right, sir." Alfred agreed. After a moment, he amended it. "Quite right. And condescending."

"I'm serious!" Bruce protested. "There's a lot of people of...ill repute here. Stick to her side the whole evening."

Annabeth had been one of the last to arrive. She had darted in, head lowered to avoid attention, and then hovered at the back, searching until she spotted Bruce and Alfred, seated towards the front, both of them straining and stretching, searching for her.

"Where were you?" Bruce whispered as Annabeth settled down in the pew next to him.

"Witnessing a phenomenon which is limited to Western culture, hopefully. " Annabeth ran a hand over her hair, trying to smooth it down. There hadn't been a lot of time to groom. "It ever occur to these people that their marriages would have a better chance of surviving if they didn't have weddings?"

On the other side of Bruce, Alfred overheard and laughed, and tried to cover it as a coughing fit. A few people sitting nearby glanced curiously at them. Bruce busied himself with reading the program, while stealing glances at the crowd around him. Annabeth was still preoccupied...

"Do the wedding vows still count if the bride's inebriated?"

"What?"

"Never mind."


	32. Chapter 32

From the live weblog of Vicki Vale, official social correspondent for the _Gotham Gazette:_

_It's a Gotham society wedding, although strictly speaking we aren't in Gotham. But without a doubt, it is _the _Gotham Society wedding of the year. Victoria Leigh-Winston _must _be secretly triumphant; bagging that title is no easy feat, even for a doyenne of her standing and duration. Nonetheless, this is an honor well-earned, as it's rumored this white wedding cost the Winstons well over $75,000…a vulgar matter to disclose in these circles, but you, my dear, humble, bourgeois readers, will be all agog and eager for more details…_

Vicki Vale raised her head from her laptop and gazed cautiously around, trying not to draw attention to the soft tapping on the keys of her laptop. That she was here at all was a major feat; she was here on sufferance and only after substantial bribery and intervention on the part of her boss's boss's boss, and she knew better than to call unnecessary attention to her working-woman status. Nonetheless, it was a symbiotic relationship, and once this crowd was well-oiled by the champagne, their tongues would be loosened and Vicki would be, once more, if not their best friend, than certainly a well-loved acquaintance. No such thing as bad publicity_._

_People have been arriving all day; as I understand it, the guest list is at approximately two hundred (with another two hundred invited only to the reception), all of them stuffed into the Winston's family chapel like so many well-heeled sardines. Perhaps a small crowd by society wedding standards, but dynamite comes in little packages, and I suspect that if a bomb were to fall on us today, the WASP population of the Middle Atlantic would be decimated rather a great deal._

Indeed. Vicki knew for a fact there were more than a few minor royalties in the crowd, easily identified by their rather ridiculous millinery. But even more relevant was the Gotham crowd—judging by the presence of politicians and investors in the crowd, Senator Winston's re-election was a forgone conclusion. Normally, the complacency of the entire situation would have irked Vicki's decidedly liberal sensibilities, but she knew Winston to be a moderate, so it was most definitely an easier pill to swallow. Furthermore, his wife was imminently sensible and even compassionate, and with the addition of little Elisa, so fierce, so bohemian, the Winston family was unsuspectingly being prodded into the age of reform.

_Here comes the bride. For those of you who love Cinderella, here you are: Elisa is resplendent—surprisingly so—in an unusual gown, tea-length in front, lengthy train in the rear, commissioned by Mmselle. Antoinette Le Veau, one of the more prestigious—and temperamental—bridal outfitters in New England. It's a lovely, somewhat understated concoction; the magnificence is truly in the veil, which is, quite perfectly, almost as long as the train._

There. Requisite attention was paid to the bride; now on to the bread-and-butter of the entire affair: the guests.

_Bruce Wayne is here, of course, as befitting his role as a childhood friend of the groom. He's slouched, indolent as ever and only slightly interested in the proceedings, looking quite toothsome and untouchable in his tuxedo, Beside him, as polar opposite as can be, sitting ramrod-straight and appearing as formidable as she sounds (I can speak from firsthand experience) is his date, Gotham advocate and social worker, Annabeth de Burgh. My goodness, this is becoming a habit for Mr. Wayne._

In fact, it _was _becoming a habit. This was quite out of character for young Bruce Wayne; studied observer of human behavior that Vicki Vale was, however, she didn't feel inclined to place any bets on the length of Wayne's dalliance with the girl.

_Of course, they pale in comparison to Bradford Winston's cousin, Theresa. She really is quite the darling of London, Los Angeles, and New York; she had her break with Victoria's Secret, as I am sure is common knowledge by this point, but recently signed an exclusive contract with Calvin Klein. She is present, of course, as one of the bridesmaids, and looking as perfect as one can. More credit to Elisa St. Marie and Victoria Leigh-Winton for choosing dresses that were refreshingly lovely. Hideous has been "in" for far too long._

Vicki smirked as she watched the bridal party slowly march their way up the aisle. Theresa certainly _was _the current it-girl; Vicki personally suspected it was because she had inherited the legendarily easy-going Winston temper. That temper was much in evidence now, as Theresa was sharing the spotlight with five other bridesmaids, in addition to the maid-of-honor and flower girl.

_But on to other matters…Where was I? Ah yes. Let's go back to Bruce Wayne and Annabeth de Burgh—good lord, what's wrong with her hair? It looks like she only spent ten minutes getting ready. Besides them, there's Mayor Garcia and his wife, looking perfectly immaculate, as well as several of Senator Winston's colleagues. If I'm not mistaken, all of them have ancestors who came off the _Mayflower. _Several Gotham tycoons, of course, including the owners of Glenda Meri Department Stores—now in their one-hundred-twentieth-year—Leonard and Renee Foucault; Honoria Swale, heiress to the tanzanite empire bearing the same name…_

The chapel was freezing cold; it had been built in a time when worship was not something to be conducted in comfort, and the Winston family's money had gone into the stained glass and statuary, commissioned from Italy, rather than space heaters. Ever so quietly, Vicki blew on her hands to warm them up, ignoring the annoyed glance of the woman beside her. How Elisa was managing to stay warm in her bridal getup was anyone's guess.

_It's a pretty chilly November day here, and cloudy too…but the bride is speaking her vows as I type this, and interestingly enough, a little bit of sunlight just managed to peek its way in through the stained glass windows, casting a beautiful rainbow upon Elisa. Perhaps unplanned, but a sweet and charming sight that we should enjoy it while we can; it's the last bit of sun we shall see for a while. Forecasters are calling for an early winter storm moving in by the end of the afternoon, and it should add an interesting element to the evening's festivities. Not a promising omen, if you choose to buy into that sort of thing..._

Vicki didn't. She was a pragmatic woman, with nary a sentimental or superstitious bone in her body, and she was willing to bet that the life of the newest Winston marriage depended more on the funds holding out than the weather. No, not quite true—Elisa was by all accounts the least materialistic woman to have married into the family in recent memory. But the availability of funds always seemed to sweetly oil the wheels of any venture, professional or personal.

The ceremony went on…and on…and on. Vicki found herself beginning to look forward to the reception, if only to get some champagne flowing through her chilled veins. Plus, there was only so much she could write about from where she sat; she needed to circulate, talk, observe. _Oh well. _She glanced around again and espied Seth Percival taking a small swig from a flask, and his wife, the timidly pretty Linda, casting anxious eyes upon him. Well, Vicki couldn't really blame him, weddings always made her crave a stiff drink, too. She could only imagine that the bride would be ready for one too, by the time this production was wrapped up.

"You may kiss the bride."

From where Annabeth sat, quite close indeed to Bradford and Elisa, she saw him lift Elisa's veil and lean in for a kiss…his surprise was minuscule, but visible at least to her, as he caught a whiff of the scotch on Elisa's breath. But breeding would out, as no doubt Victoria would say, and Bradford merely smiled and plunged in through the fumes to seal the deal.

Annabeth released a breath she had not realized she had been holding, and she, along with everyone else in the chapel, stood in recognition of the newly-weds. While it was no doubt not quite the thing to do, someone in the congregation burst into spontaneous applause, and after a surprised moment, many others did as well. Annabeth smacked her hands together enthusiastically, her smile warm and genuine. Beside her, Bruce leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Wouldn't have you pegged for a romantic."

"I'm not. But I think these two have as much of a chance as any of the poor saps in this building." Annabeth smiled and nodded at Elisa. "Elisa's one of the most genuine—and _normal_—people I know. And Bradford's as good a soul as any."

"As good as me?" Bruce's tone was painstakingly casual.

"Certainly more predictable." Annabeth returned her attention to the proceedings, not noticing the pained look that fleetingly passed over Bruce's face.

_And with a swell of music, the bride and groom begin their walk down the aisle, arm-in-arm, to commence their new life amidst the cheers and smiles and well-wishes of hundreds of Gotham elite who have probably made thousands of marriages between them. It's difficult not to approach society weddings with a certain level of cynicism, but Elisa St. Marie brings some fresh blood to the playing field, and is a refreshing bride with a high degree of sincerity and promise. Weddings may be for the bride and the groom, but it is certainly an opportunity for fledgling couples to nourish their love and veteran couples to renew theirs. There—Bruce Wayne and Annabeth de Burgh are huddled up together, no doubt delighting in the romantic atmosphere…perhaps there will be more wedding bells ringing in the near future?_ (Not a chance; Wayne wouldn't give up his bachelor status for any man, woman, angel, demon, or superhero this side of the Mississippi, but she had to give the readers something)…_Seth Percival and his wife, Linda, are both smiling, looking joyous as the occasion commands…_

Seth and Linda did reasonably happy, at least from a distance. However, if one bothered to look closely at them—and no one did, for this was an extension of Gotham and people tended not to look past their own wallets and mirrors—they would have seen that Seth Percival's smile was in fact quite grim and nailed onto his face as he surveyed the crowds, and Linda barely smiled at all. A small grimace—almost like a smile—played at her lips as her watchful, anxious eyes darted around, first at the crowds, then at her husband.

"Remember," he told her through his gritted smile, "Distract them. Keep her occupied while I talk to him. You better do this right, Linda." He placed a hand around her shoulders and caressed her neck, slowly, gently. Anyone looking at them would have interpreted it as the loving gesture of a long-married husband. But Linda knew better.

_Now, dear readers, onto the big event—the reception. Are any of you as fixated on the food as am I? Well, we'll get there, just not yet. The main reception is being held in the Long Gallery, on the first floor; perhaps a dozen generations of Winstons stare down at us from their portraits in this magnificent portion of the Bellingham Manor; I've learned that these portraits boast among their ranks a general, two countesses (that is, Winston daughters who made advantageous marriages back home in the Mother Country), a minor actor, and even-gasp!-a felon. Apparently, one branch of the Winston family turned quite a profit running a speakeasy during Prohibition._

_And it's in this remarkable room that Elisa Winston (nee St. Marie) makes her entrance, smiling, laughing, and looking for all the world like the next matriarch of the Winston family. Perhaps not a countess or actress or Nobel Prize-winner, but nonetheless, a warm, laughing, generous young woman who brings fresh sunlight into this home and makes us think there's a new day dawning for Gotham._

"Is she drunk?" Bruce asked, squinting as he gazed over at Elisa in the distance.

Instantly, Annabeth became evasive. "Good god, why would you ask such a silly question?"

"Because she's drunk."

"That's preposterous!" Annabeth started to say, but somehow, she couldn't lie to Bruce, not about this. "Well…yes, a little."

"Ah. Carrying on the Winston family tradition." Bruce shook his head in resignation, than caught a glimpse of Annabeth's surprised expression. "What? You don't expect the brides to actually put up with all of this wedding nonsense when sober, do you?"

"They'd have been scraping me off the floor," Annabeth agreed after a moment's deliberation. "It does seem like an awful lot to put up with."

_Waiters are beginning to circulate with the expected flutes of champagne. I've now decamped to the Long Gallery, where I sit, tucked away in the corner. The view is somewhat limited, but fortunately, this is a mobile crowd. They like to be seen, and they have to move around for this to happen. And so I am treated to quite a view—designer dresses, ample cleavage, and glittering jewels. And Victoria Leigh-Winston must have put a bug into one of the waiters' ears, because it's almost as though I have my own personal attendant, so plied with food and drink am I. _Vicki smirked as she wrote this last bit, then polished off her second salmon roulade tart.

The Long Gallery may have been both long and large, but it was fast filling up with people still pouring in from the chapel. The noise level was steadily rising as the guests consumed more champagne and loosened up for the more frolicksome part of a rather formal affair. A rather hefty man jostled Annabeth as he squeezed past in an attempt to pursue a much younger woman, and Annabeth suppressed a shudder of distaste. Bruce saw—and instantly divined her aversion, as the crowds were growing by the minute. With a firm hand, he led her off to the side, away from the biggest crush of the crowds. "You okay?"

Annabeth took a deep breath. "I'll be fine." She hadn't even realized yet that her pulse had begun pounding. "How about you get me some water?"

The thought of leaving her obviously did not appeal to Bruce very much. He frowned, hesitant. "Are you sure? We could take a stroll around the Conservatory…it'll be cold, but that means it will be empty, too."

"Maybe soon." She gave him a feeble smile. "I'm okay right here for now, just observing and staying away from the main crush of the crowds. Go—socialize, get some champagne. I'll be right here." To emphasize her point, she planted herself down on a low bench that looked suspiciously as though it had spent some time in Versailles.

She watched as Bruce headed back into the main part of the crowd, and saw at least three people catch him by the elbow, pump his hand, kiss his cheek. Amazing—so many of Gotham's elite secretly scorned and mocked Bruce, but they all seemed quite happy to come within his orbit. So many phonies, so little time.

_I think, my faithful readers, that this is where I should sign off. Soon enough, the potent champagne will take effect, and soon enough, the society crowds will welcome me in their midst. Can't waste that lovely opportunity because I am sitting here in a corner, geeking out. I'll resume the story first thing tomorrow, and you'll get the Gotham Wedding of the Year, Part 2!_

* * *

As the evening wore on, it became increasingly apparent to Annabeth that the wedding, and all that it represented—love, fidelity, family, commitment, silly things like that—was a fairly inconsequential occurrence, almost an annoying duty to be performed before the real business began. Annabeth suspected that, to a good many in the crowd, the wedding was, at best, an excuse to dress up, party, broker deals, and chase tail, and at worst, a damned inconvenience.

The wine and champagne flowed; the delectable food passed around and consumed; the speeches were made; the music and the dancing began. Rather than making a fool of herself—as was happening with many of the other guests who were moving their bodies in no discernible pattern—Annabeth elected to stay off the dance floor. There were more opportunities to observe and socialize, both of which she was able to do in abundance. For neither Bruce nor Alfred appeared inclined to leave her for even a moment; both hovered by her side, plying her with food and drinks and the occasional pithy aside. Anytime someone crossed their path, one of them would introduce her and initiate conversation; in this manner, the minutes and then the hours began to pass. Caught up in the smiling, hand-shaking, name recollecting, and generating of small talk with those she encountered, Annabeth noted that she was only able to observe most of the reception's proceedings from afar.

She took in the women who deliberately called attention to themselves and their finery, the men who laughed too loud and drank too much. She watched Bradford's cousin, the sweet-natured and stunningly beautiful model Theresa, deftly move away from the trays of food whenever they came her way; she watched Seth Percival, a bundle of nervous energy, move from one group to the next, focusing on the men, ignoring the women. She saw him speak with the odious Mayor Garcia several times. At one point, she caught a glimpse of Trinity, moving through the room with a quiet, inborn grace that shamed many of the dames born to their fortunes. She watched as the reporter Vicki Vale abandoned her discreet post by the wall and began to tactfully insinuate her way into the crowds, talking little and listening much. By that point, the crowd was well-enough lubricated to drop their veneer of gentility, throw discretion to the winds, and share the gossip and information that was Vicki's bread and butter. Annabeth also observed that every time the persistent reporter inched herself closer, Bruce and Alfred inched their own cluster further away.

"You seem to be very adept at avoiding Vale," Annabeth remarked as she watched the reporter get swallowed into a gaggle of platinum-blonde women which Bruce had successfully navigated themselves around. "Why so eager to dodge her?"

Not really in the mood for creating evasive witticisms, Bruce admitted, surprising them both, "_Acting _like an idiot is more exhausting and demanding than _being _an idiot. I figured I'd drop the act tonight." He finished off his glass of champagne—only his first—and plunked it down on a conveniently passing tray, studiously ignoring the sharp look that Alfred gave him. Suddenly Bruce seemed troubled, preoccupied.

Annabeth had grown accustomed to his abrupt shifts in moods, and so was not fazed. "Ah! You _admit_ it! You admit, you put on an act!" She pinned him with a shrewd glance. "So...why do you still put on act with me?"

Bruce turned to face her head-on, and she noted that it seemed as though his blue eyes had gone unfathomably dark. "To protect you."

A moment of stunned silence greeted this remark, and then Annabeth burst into laughter. "To protect _me?_ Bruce, what in god's name do you need to protect _me _from?"

Behind Bruce, Alfred briefly buried his head in his hands. Bruce didn't answer at first, merely looked out at the milling, merry-making crowds. His eyes danced from one cluster of people to the other, but that was the only part of him that gave anything away. And then, his broad shoulders slumped. "Oh hell."

Annabeth didn't understand what was going on, but she was no stranger to the sound of utter defeat in his voice; it wrenched at her heart for its familiarity. She had never seen Bruce look like that before, look so utterly...wretched. She put a gentle hand on his arm, just as if he were one of her clients. "Bruce...what's wrong?"

Apart from malfunctioning equipment, the one thing that Bruce—or the Batman—could never quite anticipate was the human element. Each and every time something went haywire, it was Bruce's fellow humans who caused things to deviate from the expected, reasonable outcome. The grieving parents, the meth-addled teen, the righteously angry citizen seeking justice through vigilante action, the homeless driven beyond hope, the unstable, the desperate, the depressed, the quixotic, the sociopath freak in face paint, they were always the wild cards who forced Bruce to constantly be prepared to revise and resubmit.

He just never expected—_aaahhh, his first mistake_—that _he_ would ever be the wild card.

It had been that damned wedding, of course. Elisa, radiant (and inebriated, it would seem) and flowing over with joy, had gazed up at Bradford and over at Victoria and Gregory with such open, unreserved love, that Bruce could not have helped but to think of his own parents, and to ponder what sort of wedding Thomas and Martha Wayne had had. The photos were gone, of course, consumed in the inferno which had permanently redecorated the original Wayne Manor. And then, thinking of his parents led to thinking of their deaths, and thinking of their deaths inevitably led Bruce to ponder his current life, and the path he had chosen.

What was the damned use of it, anyway? Thomas and Martha had vowed their love and commitment, had borne a son...who grew up to be incapable to look at pictures of them without being permanently twisted, a son who now seemed to determine to allow the family line to die with him, a son who felt scarred, alienated, incapable of functional relationships. A son who was, apparently, now incapable of going to weddings without relating them back to a traumatic incident with which he should have come to terms long ago.

And there he was, at a wedding, squiring about an attractive and honorable woman who was as committed to fighting crime and misery as he was; on paper, it could be wonderful alliance. But in practice-how? How could it ever work? Annabeth only knew one half of him, and while she made him feel more _at one _with his other half, she didn't know a thing about it. How "at one" could she be with all of him, every facet? Annabeth, so guarded, so prickly, had taken a huge leap of faith in trusting Bruce Wayne, and he had deliberately sought that trust, cultivated it, even as he knew that those actions alone were cold, calculated lies and betrayals. Without realizing it, without realizing that he would develop deep emotions, Bruce had backed himself into a corner, and it seemed that there was no escape. Continue to deceive her and retain her company...or come clean and shatter the trust she had come to place in him?

The whole wedding, intended to be a joyous occasion, had left Bruce feeling more unhappy and isolated than he had felt in a very long time-or at least more aware of his misery and isolation.

"Bruce?" Annabeth asked again. There was concern, and confusion, in her forthright gaze. She glanced over at Alfred, who was studiously _not _meeting her eyes.

Before the odd conversation could degenerate any further into heavy silences and loaded glances, the wedding closed in on them once more. Focused in on themselves as they were, neither Alfred nor Bruce nor Annabeth noticed the unwelcome invasion of interlopers: Seth Percival and his wife had come a-calling.

"Bruce Wayne!" Seth smiled in his tight-lipped way; the facial expression resembled a grimace more than anything else. "I was hoping I would get a chance to speak with you this weekend! My office has been trying to get in touch with you for the past week." His tone was genial enough, but his eyes had a cold glint that Annabeth didn't care for. But then, she cared very little for any part of him at all.

Bruce had the courtesy to look abashed. "Aw, Seth, you know how it is." He rolled his eyes. "There's just _so many _demands on my time. I don't _get _it."

Seth glanced at Annabeth, his cold eyes appraising. "I think I can understand. After all, in the company of such a lovely lady, what head could you possibly have for business?"

Annabeth was having none of this. "Since when are the two mutually exclusive?" She made no effort to disguise the hostility in her voice. Each time she encountered Seth Percival, she liked him less and less, and given Trinity's suspicions, so recently voiced, she now saw him as nothing less than a mortal enemy.

For once, however, Seth had made up his mind to be charming and courteous, and no amount of baiting or sharp rebukes on Annabeth's part would shake him from his determination. "I wanted you both to meet my wonderful wife, Linda." He glanced at the silent woman beside him. "Linda has been dying to talk to you, Annabeth, about all the amazing things you do at that little halfway house you run."

Linda didn't look as though she had been dying to talk to Annabeth, but then, it didn't look like she got too worked up about anything. She smiled readily enough, certainly, but there was something...off about her. She seemed to be simultaneously nervous around her husband, and yet quite dependent upon him. An unpleasant thought began to take root in inside Annabeth's head, but before she could pursue it, Seth spoke again. "Why don't you ladies discuss...lady things? Bruce and I have a few business matters to which we must attend."

And just like that, the women were summarily dismissed. Linda looked resigned and unsurprised, but Annabeth was less than impressed. Nevertheless, Elisa and Bradford's wedding reception was probably neither the right time nor the right place to make verbal mincemeat of Seth Percival, and so, she watched silently as Seth adroitly guided Bruce away from not only Annabeth and Elisa, but Alfred as well. The butler looked none too pleased about this—it felt a little like a strategy of divide and conquer-—but after a moment, made the decision to stay close to Annabeth.

"So..." Annabeth offered Linda a weak smile. "Seth's wife, huh?"

"Mmm." Linda's response was no more encouraging than Annabeth's approach. The two women looked at each other, and then, awkwardly, looked away. After a moment, though, Linda appeared to pull herself together and focused more closely on Annabeth. "Seth has mentioned you a few times...what is it that you do, exactly?"

It never got old, as far as Annabeth was concerned. She never grew tired of explaining Safe Haven, describing the work they did, the part she played, the triumphs they achieved, the main obstacles they encountered. It never got old to Annabeth, and she knew it all by heart, too. This enabled her to pay more attention to her audience than a person normally would on their soapbox. And being able to pay discreet attention allowed Annabeth to observe that her audience of one managed to tipple not one but two glasses of champagne in the fifteen minutes they spoke...and Annabeth was pretty damned sure those weren't her first drinks of the evening, either. She sipped her bubbly, nodding at Annabeth every now and then, and Annabeth continued to talk...and wonder if the woman was paying a damned bit of attention. _Society women._

And then Linda interrupted Annabeth, surprising them both. "Who comes to your Safe Haven?" As she asked this, she polished off her champagne and looked around for a waiter.

"Who comes?" Annabeth repeated. "Women down on their luck, or trying to get out of drugs or prostitution or a violent relationship. We get some mothers with children, and some teenage girls, too."

"Yes, but _who?" _Linda pressed. "Are they poor? Middle class? Wealthy? Are they _somebody?"_

_Oh lord, _Annabeth thought to herself. Aloud, quietly but forcefully, she said, "They're somebody to someone. Or they will be, given the chance."

"It's just hard to imagine anyone like me there," Linda said softly.

Alfred, who had been maintaining a discreet distance, nonetheless heard this and raised a questioning eyebrow at Annabeth. Before she could respond however, she was ambushed by the newest Winston bride, who materialized from seemingly nowhere in a blur of white lace and tulle.

"Annabeth!" Elisa shrieked, causing several people nearby to turn and stare. "Found you!"

It was obvious that the drink that Annabeth had plied her with much earlier in the day had been supplemented by the seemingly endless supply of champagne. Elisa was quite gleefully soused, and seemingly oblivious to the fact. Hopefully it was some Winston family tradition, and not something that she would be trying to live down thirty years down the road. Alfred raised his eyes heavenward.

"Elisa, do you know Linda?" Annabeth attempted to play hostess. "She's Seth Percival's wife."

"Oh." Elisa's suddenly flat voice indicated that she was less than impressed by this fact, but she quickly regained her ebullient spirits. "Well, we can't hold that against you. Look, do you mind if I borrow Annabeth for a minute?" Without waiting for a response, she pulled Annabeth away.

"You're freakishly strong, you know that?" Annabeth asked as she cast an apologetic glance back at Alfred and Linda, who they had left behind, abandoned and bemused. "You're even shorter than I am..."

"Like a troll, but cuter," Elisa cheerfully agreed. "Look, I need your help with something..."

"Sure, what is it?" Annabeth was distracted, her mind still on her aborted encounter with Linda.

"I need you to go to the bathroom with me."

"Eh?" Annabeth focused back on Elisa. "Why?"

They both peered at Elisa's rather cumbersome cathedral length train trailing behind her. "It's worse than a Siamese twin," Elisa sighed. _"And I really have to pee."_

"But..." Annabeth cast about for an excuse. "Isn't it the maid of honor's job? Where's Candy Lou?"

"Drunk," came the succinct reply. "And maybe involved in a _ménage à trois_ in the chapel. _Please, _Annabeth."

There could be no other answer than "yes." Resigned, Annabeth followed Elisa out of the Long Gallery, away from the wedding party, away from the revelers. Away from the amused new husband and in-laws. Away from Alfred, who decided it was high time to rescue Bruce from Seth Percival's avaricious clutches. And away from Linda, who knew she was about to be in one hell of a lot of trouble.

* * *

There had been many times throughout Annabeth's life when she found herself with little few comforts, physical or otherwise. Left to the tender mercies of Gotham's Social Services, she had grown up in several less-than-nurturing foster homes; in these places, while physical deprivation and discomfort were rare, the main misery was the lack of comfort, love, security, reassurance, positive feedback...in short, all of the emotional support that came with all but the most dysfunctional families. Sometimes Annabeth would encounter pleasant places; more often she did not. And so, thrown back onto her own resources, she found her own methods to comfort and distract herself. There were her books, of course—even at her most ornery and rebellious, Annabeth had been a voracious reader—and eventually, her studies. When she grew older, she had the support network of some friends. But her most private means of emotional sustenance had always been her ability to imagine her future life, where she would be when she was beyond the control and whims of the foster care system. When she was impervious to the sometimes random cruelty and neglect of some of her foster families. When she had made her own life for herself, and was self-supporting, and independent of the emotional sickness of her childhood. Imagining this life had been Annabeth's chief form of comfort during her adolescent years.

All good and well. It was just that—well, even at her most fanciful, Annabeth hadn't imagined a future adult life into which would be factored the dubious honor of holding up a socialite's bridal gown and train as she tinkled.

"Great wedding, huh?" Elisa trilled as she finished up and Annabeth deliberately looked the other way and wished she had consumed more champagne. "I mean, really wonderful! It will be totally commemorated in the Winston family albums." She flushed and straightened up, tottering as she did. "I wish _everyone _could be as happy as I am right now."

"I'm glad_ no one_can see how drunk you are now," Annabeth retorted. "Although they will soon enough. Come on, let's straighten out your dress and get back to the show."

_I've made my way back to my perch, and here I shall remain for a good long while. _Vicki paused as she took a sip from her glass—she had switched to water half an hour before—and then resumed typing. _The first flush of revelry has died off, and indeed, some of the revelers have willing spirits but weak flesh, and so have fallen away. But still, this is the society wedding of the year...and we all know that the real society weddings have little to do with the wedding and everything to do with the society. Here at Bellingham Manor, this weekend, it's difficult to approach the festivities without a certain amount of cynicism...but then, it's just like we never left Gotham at all._


	33. Chapter 33

Having been abandoned for the secrets of the women's world, Alfred was slightly at a loss. Annabeth and Elisa were indisposed for what could possibly be a good long while...when Master Wayne had ordered him to follow Annabeth, Alfred was fairly damned sure he hadn't meant into the inner purgatory of the woman's loo, and so he had chosen discretion as the better part of valor. So there he stood, as Annabeth and Elisa wandered off in search of the most private bathroom. Following them was not an option, and so he returned to Master Wayme, deep in conversation with Seth Percival.

It took a gifted observer—thankfully, that was Alfred—to notice that this was not actually a conversation. Having a conversation implied some sort of reciprocity, some sort of dual and equal engagement. In this case, Seth Percival was the only one talking, and given the look of annoyed boredom on Master Wayne's face, this was less a conversation than a sales pitch.

Time to intervene. Alfred snagged another flute of champagne—_where did the stuff keep coming from?_—and sidled over to the two men.

"Pardon me for interrupting, gentlemen," Alfred interrupted, clapping a hearty, and no doubt unwelcome, hand on Percival's shoulder as he passed him the champagne. "I hope it was nothing important. But I simply _had _to come snag Master Wayne. I just spotted an old friend of his, you see. A charming lady with an even more charming accent..."

"Natascha!" Bruce's eyes lit up. "I must say hello! Especially before Annabeth comes back." Bruce winked roguishly at Percival. "You don't mind if we shelve this conversation, do you? It sounds...interesting, but I'll have to see what funds are available to invest. You understand, don't you?"

"Absolutely," Percival lied through gritted teeth. "But don't sit on your decision too long. This is a fleeting opportunity..."

Seth watched the two men depart, his eyes glinting dangerously. And then he went off in search of Linda.

* * *

"Any information?" Alfred asked as they went off in search of the nonexistent Natascha, who was no doubt half a world away, comfortably wrapped up in either furs or the arms of her new husband.

"Not much," Bruce admitted. "Damned fool was stupid enough to talk about a couple of other 'investors'. No names, however—I don't think he knows a lot of the details. He's working this from the corporate angle; the Arrows are actually taking care of the ugly details. We need to work the Arrows angle with Trinity, and whoever else has access to or information about the Arrows." Bruce paused, glancing back to make sure that they had put enough distance between themselves and Seth Percival. "Annabeth can't stand him, couldn't stomach him even before she found out about him being involved. She's got good instincts; the man's disgusting." And then his mind drew back to the present moment. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Elisa came by...she said she needed help in the bathroom." Alfred's brow was furrowed as he contemplated the inscrutable ways of women. "I think she needed help managing the dress."

"I'm not an expert when it comes to women..." Bruce mused.

"...but this could be a while," Alfred concluded.

The two men looked at each other, resigned.

"Well," Bruce sighed. "At least she can't get into any trouble in the bathroom...still, better go try to track her down."

* * *

They managed not to do irreparable damage to Elisa's gown, and smoothed it back down into its proper shape. "There," Annabeth said. "Right as rain. Let's get you back out to the party, before they think you've absconded with your dowry."

"Ha!" Elisa snorted. "My dowry consists of a parakeet, two tactfully absent parents and a burgeoning career in do-gooder photography. Victoria still doesn't know what to make of me!"

"Hrm." Annabeth didn't know what to say to that, and so decided to say nothing. Instead, she simply guided Elisa out of the bathroom—mercifully empty and isolated, by virtue of its distance from the Long Gallery—and began to lead her back to the party. They made it all of five steps before Elisa ground to a stop. "Oooooh!"

It had been a long time since Annabeth had dealt with a silly drunk woman. She sternly ordered herself to be patient. "What is it?"

Elisa gently broke away from Annabeth and began meandering back down the way they had come. "Look!"

Annabeth looked. Elisa was heading through a doorway which led into the conservatory Annabeth had seen much earlier that day. Through the glass ceiling, they could see the dark November night sky, every few seconds illuminated by lightning. Away from the noise and chatter and music of the revelries, the two women could now hear the ominous sound of rumbling thunder, which seemed to grow louder with each passing second.

Slowly, they wandered into the conservatory, which was blissfully silent and empty. It was colder in there, but...

"So beautiful," Elisa breathed, and Annabeth had to agree. It was certainly far more beautiful than the celebration of excess going on in the Long Galllery, and more peaceful, too. The rare plants and statuary were illuminated periodically by the brilliant whitish-blue lightning, and then were plunged back into darkness. "They said we were going to get stormy weather tonight..."

Almost unwillingly, Annabeth moved further into the conservatory. It was so peaceful...

...behind her, Elisa sighed. "I suppose we should get back to the reception." But before she could say anything else, the peace of the conservatory was shattered.

"...the hell were you thinking?"

"Jesus, leave me _alone. _Dammit, can't I get away from you for a minute?"

"You _were_ away from me—and look what happened! I ask you to do one damned thing, and you get ditched by those silly bitches!"

Lightning flashed, illuminating Elisa's annoyed expression. "Seth Percival, I think, and poor old Linda. Sounds like he's got it in for the poor old girl."

"Sounds like it," Annabeth responded, but she was paying little attention to Elisa. Her hackles were up, and she sensed something unpleasant developing. Slowly she inched towards the voices.

"You're a fucking asshole, you know that, Seth? Is it ever possible for you to talk about a woman normally?" Linda's voice, louder now, seemed to rattle against the conservatory glass.

"I've yet to meet a normal woman. You and I need to have a little chat; I think you need to be reminded what I mean when I tell you I want you to do something. Come out here with me."

They heard his footsteps smack against the cold marble floor, and then the telltale creak of the massive door leading out to the Italian garden. Elisa's and Annabeth's eyes met; he wanted to go outside in this crazy weather? The man was deranged. Or drunk. Possibly both.

Linda clearly agreed. "Are you _nuts? _I am _not _going out in this weather. What's gotten into you, Seth?"

"Nothing more than my usual disgust with you. You're useless and you make me _sick. _Now _come with me."_

His voice had taken on a decidedly aggressive and vicious edge.

At what point did uncertain spectators become passive witnesses and accomplices? Annabeth had been at this point several times before, and was already moving after Seth and Linda. "Elisa-get Bruce and Bradford. No, wait. Just get help. Whoever's around and closest."

Years of taking charge and handling crises had given Annabeth all the authority she ever needed, and her tone was one that would have brooked no argument, even had Elisa been inclined to object. Not even pausing to question or second-guess her, Elisa turned on her heel and headed back into the Manor, hopefully to find help close at hand. Annabeth barely spared her a glance as she headed in the direction where she had heard Seth and Linda go. Awareness of her surroundings faded to the background; as she passed over the Italian marble floors and past the orchids and lilies, she may as well have been passing over the broken sidewalks and blighted shrubs of Gotham; it was all the same to her. Linda was in trouble, just like any Gotham woman, and that was the important point of commonality.

She banged open the conservatory door leading into the outdoor gardens, but the noise was lost in a rumble of thunder and a simultaneous gust of wind. The quiet, still conservatory had belied the wild weather beyond the Manor, and the blast of unexpected cold nearly took Annabeth's breath away. Worse than that, icy rain lashed down from the angry skies, pelting her skin. She charged into the night, heedless of this; all that mattered was finding Seth and Linda. She heard his voice somewhere in the paths ahead, and more worrisomely, did not hear Linda's.

An accommodating flash of lightning illuminated her surroundings, and Annabeth was able to see Seth just as he shoved Linda down in the middle of the path ahead. He hovered over her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and getting in one hearty smack before Annabeth slammed into him. "Get the hell away from her!" she bellowed. The thunder swallowed her words, however, and Seth was aware only of her physical interference.

What had she expected to happen? She would ask herself that over and over in the days to come. Why had she charged him and then backed off, as though she expected him to come to his senses, back off, apologize for his ungentlemanly behavior? Had she really spent so much time with the upper echelons of Gotham, that she expected them to somehow behave any differently than everyone else in Gotham she had encountered? Had her outlooks and expectations really been so altered that she believed a _wealthy _wife-beater was somehow different, better, classier, more open to reason and repentance?

Of course, Seth Percival did _not _pursue any such courteous behavior. What he did do, as he recovered his balance, and turned around, and saw Annabeth standing there, over Linda, glaring at him—but stupidly, not on her guard-was what any typical Gotham lout would have done in his same situation. He hauled off and smacked Annabeth hard. It was a good one, backhanded, high on her cheekbone, and it sent her reeling. Losing her balance, Annabeth stumbled, face first, towards the ground, knocking her eye into the handle of a stone amphora.

She hit the ground beside Linda. Temporarily stunned and in no small amount of pain, she was only dimly aware that suddenly, Seth Percival was not the only one standing over them.

* * *

Elisa hadn't had to go far to find aid; scarcely had she erupted out of the conservatory when she collided with Bruce, Alfred, and Bradford, the latter wishing to locate his inebriated bride who had, it had turned out, disappeared just before the cake cutting. The three men had taken in Elisa's unusually pale face and wide, anxious eyes and immediately headed into the conservatory. Unable to get a sensible word out of the breathless woman, Bradford and Alfred searched within; Bruce, on the other hand, decided to brave the elements and see if he could locate Annabeth out-of-doors.

It didn't take long to find Annabeth—in fact, he espied her almost immediately. Seth Percival was standing, seemingly oblivious to the rain and wind, and sprawled on the ground before him were Seth's wife and Annabeth, both of them looking more than a little the worse for wear.

Violent, deadly anger was coursing through Bruce before he was aware of it; it seized control of him and propelled him forward, drowning out whatever sensible voice may have been advising him to stay his hand. There wasn't a hope of it—Annabeth was under _his _protection, whether or not she knew it, and she was now hurt. Someone would pay.

Before he realized what he was doing, _just _before he was aware that Bradford, Alfred, and Elisa had followed after him into the wild night, Bruce had gripped Seth by his shoulder, jerked him around, and slammed his fist into the man's face, shattering his nose.

"Ow, _Jesus_!" Bruce exclaimed, shaking his hand. This was not just for the benefit of the audience he had just realized he had had; it was rare that he had reason to fight outside his armor, and while he could still land a mean punch, it didn't mean that his fist would feel great afterward.

"Annabeth!" Elisa cried. She glared at Seth Percival, who had doubled over, clutching his hands to his face. Bright crimson blood flowed freely through his fingers. "What did you do to her?"

Despite his broken nose, despite his voice being muffled behind his hands, despite the thunder rumbling overhead, they all heard him clearly. "Nothing the bitch didn't deserve."

This time, Bruce had neither time nor opportunity to attack, for Elisa's retribution was immediate and brutal; she planted her overpriced, Stuart Weitzman-shod foot smack into Seth Percival's crotch and watched in satisfaction as he dropped like a stone.

Bruce knelt beside Annabeth, noting in surprise that his limbs felt shaky. "Are you alright?"

Annabeth groaned. "That wasn't my brightest move." She turned her throbbing head and looked over at Linda, who was being helped to her feet by Bradford and Alfred. "Are you okay?"

Linda didn't answer, merely looked in alarm at Seth's prostrate, groaning form, and then looked accusingly at Bruce. "What the hell did you do to him?"

* * *

After that, things moved quickly, yet strangely in a haze. Annabeth was aware of Linda and Seth hurrying inside, of Bradford crying out in dismay as he realized Elisa now stood in her soaked, ruined wedding gown, of Bruce gently cradling his hand, of Alfred quietly keeping things together and trying to shepherd them all back into the conservatory. Victoria, with her almost-supernatural hostess's talent for sensing things amiss, had gathered Gregory and was waiting in there, her expression anxious, then bemused, then furious. Gregory's presence, surprisingly, offered a level of sanity and level-headedness Annabeth would not have expected from a politician.

And of course, Annabeth was now aware of her own physical discomfort. Bruce had helped her to her feet while she was still dazed, and as a result she had staggered back against him. She was dimly aware of his catching her—_how_ did he have such good reflexes?-before she hit the ground again. "Oh, god," she had muttered. "Not exactly an independent woman thing to do, huh?"

Bruce had lowered her back down to the ground and knelt down beside her. "It doesn't matter." His eyes were concerned, but his manner abstract—Annabeth had caught him glancing ahead towards the direction that Seth had headed. But then he had focused back on her. "Come on, let's try this again."

Then they were in the Conservatory. The lighting was not much better, but it was bright enough for them to assess the damage. They were all drenched and shivering; Elisa looked like a drowned rat, so soaking wet was she; Annabeth's face was already starting to swell. Bruce took one lengthy look at her before he turned to Victoria and Gregory, who were clustered around Elisa. "Where did Percival go?"

Everyone stared at Bruce; his voice had gone low and lethal. Had Annabeth been more aware, she would have noticed how familiar it sounded. Alfred looked at Bruce in alarm.

"Percival and Linda went back inside, Bruce," Gregory said quietly. "You did quite a number on him." Was his voice approving or condemnatory? Annabeth couldn't tell.

Victoria took charge. "Are we going to call the authorities? We need to decide." If she was dismayed at the prospect of bringing the wedding and Bellingham Manor into the larger public spotlight, her voice did not betray it.

"I think we should," Elisa said firmly. She glanced at Gregory, who was wisely keeping quiet. "I'm sorry, Gregory. I know it doesn't look good for anyone here, but it's the right thing to do."

"It won't matter."

They all turned to Annabeth. She made a pitiful sight, as soaking wet and shivering as Elisa, but with a slightly mangled face as well. "Linda won't press charges."

Bradford looked shocked. "Why the hell not?"

Bruce spoke again, and his voice seemed more normal. "Annabeth's right." He had spent enough time with the inhabitants at Safe Haven to understand the sickness that kept them bound to their cruel and violent men. "I wouldn't place any bets on Linda Percival going against Seth." His face darkened again, and it was clear to everyone that, while he knew Linda lacked the independence to cross her husband, he would have no problems bringing down Seth Percival.

"I think we should probably try to salvage what's left of the night," Alfred suggested. He didn't look particularly happy with the options. "I imagine the Percivals will be making a rather hasty and tactful departure, but there are still a few hundred other people that are probably wondering where the bride and groom are."

"You're right." Victoria assessed Elisa. "I think we can probably salvage you, my dear. Fifteen minutes, and we'll have you as good as new. Annabeth..." she smiled gently. "Did you want to come with us, or...?" she left the question delicately hanging, as though she sensed Annabeth's disinclination to rejoin the crowds.

Bruce answered for Annabeth. "I think we've both had enough excitement for the evening." He put a protective arm around her shoulders. "Do you mind if we make a tactical retreat for the remainder of the evening?"

"It's probably for the best, Master Wayne," Alfred answered for Victoria. "The adoring crowds will probably just assume you're having a rather more exciting after-party."

A particularly loud crack of thunder captured their attention. "Actually, if this weather grows much worse, we might need to abort the reception," Victoria remarked. "Come, Elisa, let's see what needs to be done." She cast an assessing eye at Bruce, Alfred, and Annabeth. "Will you three be alright?"

Her experienced eyes told her she didn't need to ask. Bruce was hovering protectively over Annabeth, his attention entirely focused upon her. And Alfred, devoted man that he was, was standing aside discreetly and quietly, probably already thinking of ways to bring the swelling down. And so, Victoria's pragmatic mind moved on to more pressing matters-the logistics of the weather and the guests, turning Elisa back into a presentable bride and not a victim of the _Titanic_, and how to permanently blacklist Seth Percival from the Gotham social scene.

And so she ushered her husband, her son, and her daughter-in-law back into the Manor, knowing that she had left Annabeth in good hands. But as the Winstons moved on, an isolated island of family loyalty and love, its newest member, Elisa, cast one final, backwards glance at Annabeth. She still sat in the conservatory, hunched over on a bench, Alfred and Bruce hovering around her. She was wet, shivering, and completely dejected; Elisa had never seen strong, brave Annabeth brought so low.

That was her final image of Annabeth. And although Elisa had no way of knowing it then, it would be quite a while before she saw her again.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Annabeth finally felt up to the task of leaving the conservatory. With Bruce's firm arm around her, she began the long trek back to her bedchamber.

"Where's Alfred?" she asked quietly. So quietly, in fact, that Bruce had to lean in to hear her.

"He went ahead to get some...things." Bruce didn't feel the need to mention that Alfred, well-versed in the ways of first-aid, had taken one long and practiced look at Annabeth's injuries, accurately assessed what would be needed to treat her, and had immediately disappeared in search of the necessary items. What Bruce didn't realize was that Alfred had correctly sensed Annabeth's muted distress, and thought it wise to absent himself, at least temporarily. He had become friends with Annabeth, but it was Bruce who was devoted to her, and so it was to Bruce—ill-equipped though he was—that the task of comforting Annabeth fell.

They slowly made their way through the cold, empty corridors of Bellingham, the only noise being their own footsteps, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder. "Where is everyone?" Annabeth mumbled.

"All the guests are still at the reception, and I think it's all hands on deck for the staff, too." Bruce glanced down at her. "Does it matter where they are?"

"I don't particularly want to run into anyone right now."

"Well, we won't have to." Bruce squeezed her hand. "We're here." He swung the massive door inward and led Annabeth into her darkened bedchamber. As he led her inside, he let out a low whistle. "Good god, this place really is gloomy."

"Astute assessment."

He closed the door firmly behind them, and with that decisive act, the rest of the manor was closed off from them, and the bedchamber became their fortress. Even so, Annabeth did not spring in to any kind of action. She merely stood where Bruce had left her.

Strange.

With no other obvious choice in front of him, and with every instinct inside him crying out to do so, Bruce took charge. He left her momentarily and went rummaging around in the bathroom, emerging with a robe and towel in his hands. "You're soaking wet and it's freezing in here. Get out of those things while I try to warm this place up." He noted that while she accepted the linens, she made no move to follow his instructions. "Do you...need help?"

Enough of the old, indomitable Annabeth remained to give him a vaguely withering look, and she disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to skin off her useless evening wear. Meanwhile, Bruce set about trying to bring some light, warmth, and humanity to their surroundings, and focused on the massive fireplace. Much to his surprise, it had every appearance of being functional, and much to his pleasure, all of the necessary tools and kindling were close at hand. And so it was that when Annabeth emerged from the bathroom, wrapped up in her terry robe and clutching her crumpled finery, a merry blaze was beginning to grace the hearth.

With gentle hands, Bruce guided her to one of the armchairs that faced the fire, and pressed her down into the seat. "Are you okay?"

No answer. Beyond the windows, thunder rumbled. It was really a doozy of a storm.

Not knowing what else to do, Bruce dropped to his knees beside the chair and peered into Annabeth's face. She finally looked back at him, and what he saw in her eyes floored him: Shame. Sorrow. Loneliness. Misery. None of the burning courage, the fierce will, the determined resourcefulness, the manic energy he had come to associate with her. Only utter despair.

"This is why I work so hard," Annabeth said. "Because if I don't, if I were to stop, I could just give up so easily...It never ends, does it?"

Before Bruce could respond, a knock echoed in the room. It came, not from the main door leading out into the corridor, but from the door leading into the little passageway connecting Bruce and Annabeth's rooms. Before either of them could respond, the door opened and Alfred silently padded in. He was bearing a tray, which he brought to them and set down on a little table by Annabeth's chair. "The guests are beginning to depart," he informed them. "The weather is, if possible, worsening. It should be turning to sleet before too long."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said wearily. "I'll take care of it from here."

If Alfred read anything untoward in the statement, no indication of it passed over his serene features. He merely nodded and began to withdraw. "I'll bid you both goodnight."

It wasn't until Alfred exited the room and passed back through the private passageway that he allowed his expression to dissolve into worry.

* * *

Back in Annabeth's bedchamber, Bruce momentarily turned his attention away from Annabeth's blue devils and assessed the contents on the tray Alfred had brought him. The items upon it were simple enough: a washcloth, a bucket of ice, two crystal tumblers, and a decanter filled with amber liquid. Most likely some sort of expensive scotch, perhaps the Glen Garioch that Gregory had been boasting about. Well, his reserves were going to take a hit tonight.

With a deft and liberal hand, Bruce poured a tumbler for each of them, adding a few cubes of ice as an afterthought. "Here," he told Annabeth. "Get this in you and there won't be much wrong with you."

"Somehow I doubt that," Annabeth said. And then the remnants of her stoic facade collapsed, her face crumpled, and she began to cry. "I'm sorry...you just...I don't think you can understand..."

Bruce had encountered many situations in his life, but this was something entirely new. For a horrible moment, he feared he would not be equal to the task of providing comfort-this was not what he had had in mind when he decided to help and support Gotham. It was beyond the realm of his knowledge, training, and skill level...but then some basic, elemental part of him, untouched by Joe Chill or the loss of his parents or the ruthlessness of his own training or the loneliness of his emotionally barren existence, kicked in and took control. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, feeling the small bones, the tense muscles, the tightly-wound misery. Oh, he understood her far more than she would ever know.

The initial storm of weeping had subsided into the undignified but necessary gasps, snuffles, and incoherent apologies that inevitably followed such an unexpected outburst of emotion. Bruce wisely remained quiet as Annabeth slowly began to regain her composure and wipe her eyes-wincing as she absently made contact with the side of her face that Seth Percival had temporarily redecorated. Eventually she gave him a feeble, watery smile.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I wasn't expecting that."

"Nor was I," Bruce admitted ruefully, and took a welcome swig from his glass of scotch. He indicated Annabeth should do the same. "Do you feel any better?"

Annabeth took a sip of the scotch, pulled a face, and set the glass down gently beside the ice bucket. "In some ways yes, in some ways no." She fell silent as Bruce switched positions and took her face in his hands. "What...?"

Gently he tilted her face so that the injured portion was illuminated by the flames. Seriously, carefully, he studied it, taking in the bruise that was forming on her cheek, and the smaller cut near her eye, where the amphora had struck her. His eyes darkened with suppressed anger as he assessed, once more, Seth Percival's handiwork, and he wished fervently he had had a little more time alone with the man.

Forcing this upsurge of negative and unproductive emotion back down to his internal batcave, Bruce focused back in on Annabeth. "Any more dizziness? Headache? Nausea?"

"No, nothing like that," Annabeth mumbled. It was difficult to talk with Bruce's hand pressing lightly against her jawbone. "I don't have a concussion...just a bruised sense of pride." His hand moved up towards her cheek injury. "Ow. And a bruised cheek."

"Mmm, sorry." Bruce withdrew his hands and busied himself preparing a makeshift cold pack from the ice and wash cloth. "Why injured pride?"

Annabeth shrugged sheepishly. "My own arrogance. My own ignorance."

Bruce didn't immediately respond to this; he was absorbed in carefully bringing the cold pack to Annabeth's face. "Here." Almost tenderly, he took her hand and pressed it to the pack. "Hold this against your head for a while. It's for the swelling; for now, that's all we can do for it."

She smiled again, gratefully, and then followed his orders. Bruce, meanwhile, took another hearty swig from his drink. It wasn't like him to consume alcohol in such quantities, but surely this was an exception. It had been a while since he had personally—in the form of Bruce Wayne—encountered violence against loved ones—_damn _that phrase anyway—and the evening's events had left him shaken.

For several minutes, the two of them sat in a silence that was neither comfortable nor awkward. It was complete; each of them were attending to their own thoughts and wounds, which went deeper than mere words. However, Bruce and Annabeth were both human, no more and no less, and part of the human condition was to draw together, seek company and comfort, express themselves, and make a muck of it all, and it was only a matter of time before they commenced fulfilling their human nature.

The storm raged, the fire crackled, the room remained freezing, and Bruce and Annabeth sat, coddling their own thoughts. And then, finally, Annabeth spoke.

"It wasn't the first time I had gotten involved in a domestic dispute, Bruce. Hell, it wasn't even the first time I got my ass handed to me during one. But it was the first one that I went into it blind." She reached for her glass of scotch and took a tiny sip of it; it did not grow any more appealing the more of it she consumed, and so she set it back down with finality. "I completely fooled myself."

"What do you mean?" Bruce probed.

Annabeth snorted. "I've been spending too much time with this crowd. I went at that bastard tonight to get him away from Linda; I didn't want him hurting her more than he already had. So I attacked him in defense of her...and then what did I do? I got him away from her, and then _I stood down. _I backed away, like I expected him to realize who he was—what, a gentleman?—and stop hurting people." She looked over at Bruce, and he was alarmed to see that tears were pooling in her eyes. "That's not how people like him are, Bruce. It doesn't matter if he grew up in the Palisades or the Narrows, his kind are all the same. They want to hurt and control, and no amount of money or breeding makes any sort of goddamn difference."

Wisely, Bruce remained silent; no doubt the flood of words issuing from Annabeth had been building behind a dam of disappointment and self-judgment for a very long time, and it was better that she let it go.

"What the hell am I doing, Bruce? This isn't where I belong. I'm not like these people, not anything like them at all, and yet, a few months hanging around them, and all of a sudden, I get these ridiculous assumptions winkling their way into my head. And at the same time, the women have the same problems that the women do in Safe Haven-look at Linda! She's got the same sort of no-account husband making her life miserable, and she makes the same decision to stay with him. It's a nasty disease that's rotting our society from the inside out, from all levels. But I can't fight it at this level...that much I know."

Bruce thought he had a pretty good idea where Annabeth was going with this. As ill-versed as he was in the ways of the dating world, as little as he had suffered from rejection from any woman, he was pretty sure he could tell when it was staring him in the face. He remained silent, however, and ignored the pain beginning to clutch somewhere in his chest. From somewhere inside, he knew not where, he schooled his face into impassivity.

"I don't know what I thought was going to happen...I don't know what I was thinking," Annabeth concluded, and with that, she fell into silence and gazed dejectedly into the fire. The tears were close to the surface again.

Bruce took a final gulp of his drink and set the empty glass down on the table. "I think I understand...look, you've had a long day. Why don't you call it a night? Things will seem better in the morning." It was quite possibly the most inane thing he had ever said, but somehow, it offered a strange solace to his own raw, stinging emotions.

Annabeth was having none of it. "I don't _want _to feel better in the morning. I don't want to be part of this any more. I don't understand this, I don't understand you, I don't even understand _me_ anymore!" Once more she subsided into brooding.

Slowly, Bruce stood. "I understand perfectly...but you still need your sleep. Come on, Annabeth. It's been a rough day." He plucked her hand out her lap and gave a gentle tug. "Come on. You need to go to bed."

Willingly enough, Annabeth allowed herself to be led to the bed. Once Bruce had brought her to it, she allowed herself to look at him, full on. "I'm sorry."

In response, Bruce cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead, as though in benediction. He pulled away slightly, and their eyes met.

And thus, they were undone.

Inexplicably, mutually, their lips met in a kiss, the likes of which they had only flirted with a few times before. But most of those times had been in much more neutral, public areas, in which there was little ability to carry it any further, and many reasons to restrain themselves from doing so. Now was a different story. Now was a situation that was anything but neutral: a roaring fire; a raging storm; absolute privacy; incredible, passionate, exploring, ill-advised kisses...and a bed. An enormous, warm, comfortable, inviting bed that was even now cushioning Annabeth as Bruce slowly lifted her up and gently pressed her down into it.

* * *

Despite what the weather forecasters had been saying, the storm grew worse. It thundered more loudly, the lightning was more brilliant, and the freezing rain ruthlessly lashed the grounds and the gardens of Bellingham. But all of it paled in comparison with the tempest that was unfolding in Annabeth's room.

Hungry hands, hungry mouths, hungry hearts went exploring as both Bruce and Annabeth found in each other a willing partner. For his part, Bruce had never imagined the supple, sensual, soft, pale flesh that was revealed as he slowly peeled away Annabeth's robe; for her part, Annabeth had never even stopped to consider the muscular, powerful physique that Bruce had hidden away under his designer suits. As they chipped away at the protective layers that each had consistently presented to the other over the past months, each was pleasantly surprised by what they discovered.

As Bruce finally succeeded in pulling aside the robe that he had just so recently given to Annabeth, he saw her skin break out in gooseflesh. And so he decided to undo the swags which held the bedcurtains in place, and draw them tight against the cold. But before he did this, he began to peel away his own garments, with the assistance of Annabeth's trembling yet eager hands. Before he pulled the curtains closed and encased them in temporary darkness, Annabeth saw his chest, awash in brilliant, glowing firelight, and blinked incredulously. Who would have imagined a layabout playboy with such a powerfully-built chest?

And then Bruce pulled he curtains closed around them, there remained only the tiniest of illumination, from the firelight which glowed even through the warm velvet material. This was enough for Annabeth to see and know it was Bruce; it was Bruce who was worshiping with his hands, his fingers, his tongue, _god _his tongue! She responded to his exploring, passionate kisses with a violence she had forgotten and buried long ago. Now unearthed, this was some entirely new, entirely different feeling. She brought her hands up and ran her fingers through his hair, tugging gently to pull him further into her, only slightly aware that he was reciprocating in kind.

What ensued was a mutual struggle, a dance as old as time, as both Bruce and Annabeth competed and strove for dominance, the chief role of pleasurer, the giver of incredible sensation. Neither had imagined either themselves or the other to be capable of such passion; for both, it had been a long and lonely while since they sought solace in the arms of another. For Bruce, it was possibly the first time he had ever opened himself up as unreservedly as he did; for Annabeth, it was probably the first time she had let herself go as she did in Bruce's arms. He was all that she could have hoped for and more than she could have imagined; a thrilling combination of aggressor, to reassure her she was desired, and tender lover, to keep her feeling safe, revered, and protected, but never threatened.

Both had known the physical act of pleasure, but neither had known the release that they achieved with each other...when Bruce, bringing his hand down Annabeth's stomach, down further, further, until he was slowly, slowly, slowly stroking her center until it felt swollen to the point of explosion, and then pressing just so gently, in such a way that sent her careening into a fit of convulsions which left her limp-limbed, gasping, and clinging to him as he held her against his warm, solid body. When Annabeth, having recovered sufficiently enough to reciprocate, began to explore his body with her mouth, her lips, her teeth, kissing, suckling, biting, bringing him right to the edge...and leaving him gasping and practically begging for her to continue.

Bruce lifted his head from where Annabeth had pressed him back against the bank of pillows, and his normally pale-blue eyes were almost navy, so intense was the passion within them. "That's...incredible..." he groaned, watching her as she lifted her head and smiled provocatively. "Oh, my god..."

And finally, the two of them ended the preliminaries and brought their disparate bodies together in the ultimate act of connection, the final, life-affirming way that every man and woman has to assure themselves that they are still there, still relevant, still desirable, still existing. Bruce had been pacing himself, trying to maintain an iron control, to keep from disconcerting Annabeth, but finally, he was taken aback by her own lust-darkened eyes. As he drew her close and began to lose himself in the sensual eternity of her soft, slick folds, he had the presence of mind to ask, "Is this alright?"

Annabeth's response was a feral moan of need. Her thirst, her need for him, her primal, visceral urges were surprising to them both, but both were happy to relish them and to push each other further.

This was not a disappointing coming together, as each had secretly feared; theirs was one of the rare unions that grew better with the final joining,that pleasure and not disillusionment after the build-up to it. Annabeth savored his large hands, his probing mouth, his tantalizing mixture of tender and cocksure and aggressive; Bruce let himself go in the feminine beauty and comfort that he had, for a long time, suspected she harbored within her.

Afterward, they were silent, and they held each other close, each of them loathe to relinquish, even for a brief second, the unexpectedly reassuring closeness each drew from the other.

It couldn't last. But for the moment, it was as good as eternity.


	34. Chapter 34

Sometime late in the night, the storm spent its fury and ceased its violent assault on Bellingham Manor. In its wake it left a world encased in ice, silent, stark, beautiful, and wickedly cold; it also left many annoyed guests and impassable roads. Soon news began filtering in from the town; several properties had sustained no small degree of damage, and half the county was without power.

At least four people were unaware of these developments. In their beautiful bedchamber, the new bride and groom were tucked away in a warm bubble of honeymoon bliss, ignorant, indifferent, and very much enjoying their privacy. It would be another six hours before they would emerge from their chambers, and another few hours after that before anyone encroached on their isolated world of love with such quotidian matters as property damage and stranded guests. And in the guest wing, Bruce and Annabeth were not yet aware of anything. They were both_—_although not for much longer_—_ protected from reality by the soothing, forgiving world of sleep.

Annabeth awoke first, disoriented and with a vague, niggling sense of unease. Why was it so dark? The previous morning the morning light had positively flooded into her room through the enormous windows. _Ah, that's right. The bed curtains-we pulled them around the bed because it was so cold._

Wait.

_We._

_Oh, shit._

Slowly, slowly, trying to delay it as long as possible, Annabeth began to turn over, becoming aware of her own nakedness as she did. And then, of the delicious soreness throughout her body, long unaccustomed to the vigor it had undergone the previous night. _Shit shit shit._

She peeped over her shoulder at the other side of the bed, and in what little morning light filtered its way through the bed curtains, she received all the visual confirmation she needed. Bruce had spent the night in her bed. And presumably, in other things, as well.

_Oh, this is bad._

A few weeks back, when she had been up in the living quarters of Safe Haven, one of the women had been playing some music that had floated through her open door and down the corridor. It was a country song, which Annabeth did not normally care for, but there was something about the raw pain in the words that had stuck in her head. Now, unbidden, the words came back to her.

_Daylight has found me here again_

_You can ask me anything but where I've been..._

What the hell had they been thinking? _Had _they been thinking at all? She had been trying to tell him that they couldn't see each other any more; she had been about to send him back to his life, without her in it, she had wanted to walk_—__run-__—_away from him and all he represented: her own confusion, her vulnerabilities, the life she could never have...

And now everything was completely screwed up.

_Looking for a place to hide,_

_A warm bed on a cold night,_

_I didn't mean to hurt you,_

_No, no, no..._

She could tell Bruce was still asleep; his breathing was deep and even. His comforter-shrouded back was to her, and his shoulder rose and fell rhythmically with his breaths. When would he wake up? What should she say to him? _What the hell had she been thinking?_

Sudden memories from the night before flooded her head, and she had to give an involuntary smile as she recalled certain things. Well, she didn't know what she had been thinking, but she sure as shit knew what she had been feeling...

Sternly, she brought herself back to the present. Bruce was still sleeping, but for how long? How did she plan to gracefully disentangle herself from this? What were the chances that she would be able to exit the bed, the room, the Manor, the region without walking him up? One-night stands had never been her forte and now she remembered why: the awkwardness of the morning after, the dilemma of how to handle it, what to say, whether or not to even assume it was a one-night stand or the preliminary to something better...

Oooof. _Oh, this was bad._

Any further debate came to an abrupt end as Bruce sighed and shifted positions, rolling onto his back. And then opened his eyes.

From Annabeth's vantage point, laying on her side with her head propped up against her hand, she could see the range of reactions cross over Bruce's face. First, disorientation. Then, alarm. Then_—_most disturbingly_—_his face went completely blank, devoid of any expression at all. And finally, as he turned over and faced Annabeth, he smiled pleasantly. But it didn't reach his eyes. "Good morning."

"Morning." Annabeth looked at him searchingly. "Did you...uuuhhh...sleep well?"

Much to his surprise, Bruce had. The nightmares had been there, of course, but more muted. But whatever benefits he had reaped from this restful slumber were completely wiped out as an internal voice in his head began screaming. _Oh shit oh shit oh shit._

Not knowing what else to do, and more to stifle the instinctive panic rising within him, Bruce leaned over and gave Annabeth a thorough kiss. As much to his surprise as hers, she responded with eagerness, which only turned his kiss from a perfunctory, reactionary gesture into a much more lingering, passionate interaction.

_Not what I was expecting, _she thought.

_What the hell did I do that for? _he thought.

Finally, they pulled away, and Annabeth actually smiled sheepishly. "Well...that makes things infinitely more complicated."

Bruce's smile was uncertain. "What do you mean?"

Annabeth shrugged. "I thought..." she lowered her eyes for a moment. _A__wkward. _I thought...well, I thought this was a one-night stand."

A reasonable assumption to make, especially given Bruce's reputation, but still, he was surprised to see how little that idea appealed to him. "Did you..._want _it to be a one-night stand?" Even as he said this, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, these were things that they should have consulted each other about the night before. Christ, between the two of them, they didn't even make one functional person.

Annabeth snorted, more of a strangled laugh. "Bruce, I wanted nothing more than to break things off last night. I didn't have plans for any kind of stand_—__l_ast, one night, nothing. But...in answer to your question...I don't like one night things. They're not my style. If they were, don't you think I would have..." here she paused, struggling to select the most fitting of the many euphemisms that sprang to mind "...jumped your bones a long time ago?"

_Moot point, all of it is a moot point. _A coldly rational voice within Bruce was speaking, but he was doing his damnedest to ignore it. He was one sorry, conflicted son of a bitch. "All this time I thought you were saving yourself for Alfred."

She laughed, but it was more of a dutiful chortle than anything else.

"Why did you want to break things off?" Bruce asked. He scarcely understood why he was prying. Wouldn't it be better if he just let Annabeth give him his get-out-of-jail-free card? In his most logical and detached moments, he still could not fathom a romantic life, but he knew that when he thought of his life without Annabeth in it, he didn't like what he imagined. Which meant...well, hell, those implications were a little too much for the present. "You're not happy with me? With where things have been going?"

"Happy." Annabeth repeated this word in a wondering tone of voice. "And just where _have _things been going, Bruce? Refresh my memory, but wasn't this originally some sort of business deal that somehow got way off track? Last I saw, we lost the road map a long time back." She had a point there, they both knew. "And anyway, what's happy, Bruce? Have you figured that out? Are you happy?"

The question was so foreign to Bruce's current worldview that he felt compelled to answer honestly. "No. Not happy. I don't think I've ever been. But...I feel _better _when I'm with you." He realized as soon as he said it that it, too, was the truth.

"I think I do, too," Annabeth agreed, grudgingly.

"Then..why?" Bruce reached out and ran a hand down her arm, enjoying the soft flesh, trying to memorize every mole, every freckle, every scar he encountered. "Why walk away?" _Why am I pressing the issue? Run, Bruce! Get out of this before everyone gets hurt._

"Because you complicate things, Bruce!"Annabeth wanted to pry open his eyes. "We are two _very _different people, with very, _very_different lives. You don't known the half of who I am."

"I could say the same to you," Bruce countered quietly, then looked away.

"Touché." She was humbled, at least momentarily. "But how can we pursue anything together when we've got such different ways of living our lives?"

Now would be the perfect time to tell her. Bruce recalled, for one painfully brief second, the relief he had felt when he had revealed his secret to Rachel. For that one moment in time, as they had stood in the smoking ruins of Bruce's past, as Wayne Manor lay in devastated shambles, just before she had walked away and rejected everything for which he strove, he had felt an incredible relief, a wonderful sense of connection that came with the knowledge that someone-some _mate, _some _partner-_knew his burden and loved him anyway. He could have that; if he shared his secret with Annabeth just right, _he could have that._

But stupidly, he kept his mouth shut. And that would be his biggest mistake in a day which would turn out to be full of them. Instead of telling her what she deserved to know, he only chose to say...

"We have to try."

A few months prior, Annabeth would have not imagined herself in her current situation. She was one of the masses, one of the millions of Gothamites just trying to get on with life, trying to keep body and soul together, trying to maintain a sense of integrity in a corrupt world. She would not have imagined herself here, hobnobbing with minor celebrities, and laying in bed with Bruce Wayne, who appeared to be asking her not to leave him. Many other people—both men and women—would have happily sacrificed a limb, or their firstborn child, to be where she was presently. But Annabeth took an immeasurable amount of comfort that she still was not one of those people. She was Annabeth de Burgh, with her own ideas and values, her goals and her plans. Spending so much time with the bluebloods of Gotham had not yet changed that. Annabeth was safe.

As this revelation occurred to her, Annabeth smiled, and Bruce's spirits rose. "I suppose we have to try," she agreed. And then leaned in seductively, lowering her voice to a throaty whisper, "We have to try other things, too."

Bruce groaned, a sound of surprised, amused delight. And then he rose to the challenge.

* * *

More time had passed. How much, it was hard to say—engrossed as they had been in each other's bodies, Bruce and Annabeth had lost all sense of time. They had come together this time—times, actually—with wild abandon, as though they were both eager not to give themselves any space, any chance to back out. Their lips were bruised from the kissing, there were even a few scratch marks up near Bruce's shoulders, and both of them now lay in bed, completely spent. Annabeth was embarrassed to observe she was panting rather more heavily than Bruce; how on earth did he have such stamina?

She became aware of Bruce's finger on one of her arms, slowly, lightly tracing the design of one of her tribal tattoos, and recalled how transfixed by them he had been. Funny, considering how much she loathed them now.

As if he were reading her mind, Bruce chuckled. "You once said that you thought these looked like the rotting carcass of an ancient turtle."

"Did I?" Annabeth smirked. "That sounds like something I would say. I'm surprised you remember."

"With imagery like that, how can I forget?" Bruce continued tracing the patterns. "I know you don't care for these anymore, but they fascinate me. I really think they're beautiful on you."

"Why's that?" Annabeth closed her eyes and simply permitted herself to luxuriate in the sound of his voice and the sensation of his hands.

Bruce took a moment to carefully craft his response. "Most of the women I know are..._perfect. _Physically, at least. They've spent the majority of their lives taking care of themselves, preserving themselves, beautifying themselves, going out of their way to avoid anything that could diminish their physical appearance or age them. And they're sheltered...a little bit boring, really. Some of them starve themselves, or yack up their dinners; a few of them flirt with drinking or pills or drugs, but that's all. The ugly truths of life, they don't know about...they don't care. They haven't experienced anything physically or emotionally..." Bruce struggled for a moment to articulate his words. "Your tattoos, they're a sign of life. Not just life, but _a _life. You've lived, you've made mistakes, you've learned...it's a very sexy thing about you."

"So my tattoos are a psychological appeal, as much as a physical appeal? I can understand that."

"Oh, it's physical, too!" Bruce hastened to reassure her, which made her laugh. "What can I say? I think they're really...well, I think the common vernacular would be _hot. _I like a woman who looks as though she's spent time out in the world."

"I think _that's _common vernacular for a 'woman who gets around.'" Annabeth gave him an exasperated look. "God, you rich people and your euphemisms!"

"It's a problem," Bruce agreed amiably. "What time is it? It's probably getting pretty late in the morning."

"We'll be needing to head back to Gotham soon," Annabeth sighed. And with those simple words, the outside world came flooding back to their reality. Beyond Bellingham, their responsibilities, their burdens, their unhappiness awaited. It was one thing to contemplate an alternative life when they were sequestered away from everything unpleasant; it was another thing entirely to stand by that desire when they were facing the inevitable come-down from the high.

Bruce sighed, too, but there was nothing for it. "I should probably try to track Alfred down." With visible reluctance, he pulled away from the sweet warmth of Annabeth's curves, sat up, and pulled the bedcurtains back, letting in the bright morning light. "Well, at least the weather should be clear for the way back." He swung his feet over the side of the bed and began to emerge from the erotic haven he and Annabeth had unthinkingly established. "Although it would be nice if we could find a way to delay the return, don't you think?"

There was no answer, only a strange, heavy silence.

Confused, Bruce turned back towards the bed.

Annabeth was staring at him, her face deathly pale. "Bruce..." she gasped. "What happened to you?"

Too late, Bruce remembered his back. Still branded with the massive bruising from his last encounter with Boy-o, still healing, his powerful back displayed a painful, mottled patchwork of purples, blues, and blacks, caught in shocking relief in the bright morning light. And his chest wasn't much better. Hidden away in the shadows of the curtained bed as he had been during the night and the grey morning, Bruce's bruises had been an invisible non-issue, but in the cold light of day, they provided a rude awakening indeed. And now, too late, he remembered other, older scars. _Dammit._

"Oh, god, Bruce," Annabeth whispered. "Your back...and your chest...they look..." She shook her head, unable to comprehend the sight. "You didn't get that last night from Seth Percival, did you?"

His derisive snort of laughter was entirely involuntary and equally ill-advised. "No." And then Bruce shifted his eyes away.

_"Then what is it?" _Annabeth's instincts were kicking into gear. She clambered out of the bed, not particularly gracefully, making no effort to modestly cover her nakedness. She had bigger concerns. "Someone's hurting you, Bruce. Don't protect them." As he remained silent, her mind began jumping from person to person, possibility to possibility. "It's not...Bruce, is Alfred..._hurting _you?"

Stunned silence greeted her query; Bruce was staring at her as though she had gone quite mad. And then, that strange, closed expression came over Bruce's face. He shook his head. "Don't be silly-no one is hurting me, especially not Alfred. I'm totally fine. There's nothing wrong."

_"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" _Annabeth demanded, her voice rising steadily in pitch. "Bruce, are you insane? You're hurt. Tell me who did this to you! We can make it stop. _We have to."_

"I'm fine," Bruce said stubbornly. "Really, I'm fine. You don't need to worry." Even as he said this, he knew this would be impossible for Annabeth to accept. She was loyal to those she loved, she fought hard, she protected those who could not protect themselves...and she had a nose for smelling out bullshit. Whatever Bruce said to the contrary, his body bore evidence which told Annabeth he was a victim.

"You're hiding things from me." Annabeth said this sadly. Disillusionment—how had she forgotten the bitter taste it left in her mouth, in her heart?—began to creep its way in. "I've gotten this feeling before, and I've tried to ignore it. Your moods...the way you act...there's something going on. And with those bruises, now I know it. But you won't tell me, you just keep on lying." She suddenly seemed to realize she was rather naked, and folded her arms protectively over her chest, closing herself off once more, trying to hide her vulnerabilities.

"I'm not lying," Bruce lied insistently.

The two of them stared at each other; it was a battle of wills that neither could afford to lose.

_Tell her. _The voice in his head was yelling at him, urging him to release the secret that was even now driving a permanent wedge between them. It was the same voice that had spoken and revealed itself to Rachel, and it was the same voice which had, internally at least, yelled in hurt and outraged rejection when she had turned away.

It was not a voice Bruce was inclined to listen to. He had listened to it earlier, as he coaxed Annabeth into giving them a chance...but now the coldly rational voice, the voice of the Batman, was the one which would be heard.

Bruce didn't tell her, of course. When he explained this to Alfred much later, after they had returned to Wayne Manor and descended into the soothing depths of the Batcave, Bruce retold the events—in abbreviated form—in a resigned tone of voice. The kind of tone which implied that there had been no other possible outcome; that _of course _he couldn't tell Annabeth. _Of course._

The part of the story that Bruce left out was his own crashing hopes as he began to realize at what price his lie would come. Annabeth knew he was lying, and while she was barking up the wrong tree, he couldn't disabuse her of any notions she got into her head. He knew then, as Annabeth looked more and more concerned, then frustrated, then hurt, what his lie was going to cost him. He knew, before she ever said the words, what was going to happen.

"Bruce," Annabeth finally said, her voice beginning to crack. "I know you're lying. You're covering up for someone, or something. God knows I've seen this enough. But I can't stand by and watch you let yourself get hurt like this. I need to do something to help, and if I can't-I can only stand back and let you figure out what you need to do. You're my friend, and I can help you if you let me." Her eyes matched her pleading tone of voice. "Bruce, _please."_

"Nothing's wrong." Bruce's voice was flat, his expression giving away nothing.

Annabeth nodded; she had been around long enough to expect nothing any different. "Well...Bruce...if you can't respect me enough to tell the truth, I don't think you respect me at all. But remember: I'm your friend, and I can help, but only when you tell me what the hell is going on."

Her voice was final and carried with it an unmistakable dismissal. Still, Bruce knew there was still time to redeem himself, to rectify the situation. It was not something he was willing to do, however; it was not a chasm he felt he could cross. And so, as Annabeth stood at the window, her back to him, he moved about the bedchamber, gathering up his clothing they had so lustfully torn off the night before, and he quietly exited through the passageway without saying another word.

Only after he left, leaving her room an echoing, barren shrine to what had gone before, did Annabeth abruptly recall the last of the lyrics from that melancholy country song.

_Looking out your window at the dawn_

_Baby when you wake up, I'll be gone_

_You're the one who taught me after all_

_How to find a soft place to fall._

* * *

Two hours later, the Rolls Royce pulled away from the cobbled drive leading up to Bellingham Manor. Gregory and Victoria had encouraged them to get an early start, for the roads were treacherous and the journey long. Before Annabeth had slipped into the car, Victoria, who had no idea of the latest developments, had hugged her unexpectedly. "You'll do just fine, my dear," she whispered into Annabeth's ear, and then saw with startlement that Annabeth's eyes filled with tears.

The younger woman had fiercely brushed them away, offered them once last bright, brittle smile, and then got into the car. She was dreading the ride back, but the one thing she could do to make it more bearable was to put on a brave front.

All good and well, but she soon realized that her only concept of a brave front was reverting back to the Annabeth of yesteryear. And so, she made no attempt to engage Bruce or Alfred in conversation, and in fact retreated into a cold, forbidding silence. Bruce very wisely made no attempt to engage her conversation, and didn't even bat an eye when she pulled out her briefcase and began reviewing case files. Alfred was concentrating on the road, trying to guide the vehicle away from the more hazardous obstacles, and so had no energy or attention to devote to frivolous conversation.

This didn't mean that he didn't have the ability to observe, and observe Alfred did, all the way back to Gotham. He observed the cold silence that shrouded the car; he observed the intense way that Bruce and Annabeth avoided looking at each other; and he observed that there was something very wrong indeed. The weekend which had started off so promisingly had somehow degenerated into some sort of worst-case scenario, and Alfred was in no position to try to pick up the pieces. All he could do was drive on.

And so he drove.

* * *

Gotham.

Only 48 hours or so had passed since their departure, but as the city's skyline finally came into view, Annabeth found herself curiously relieved and comforted. Her foray into new territories had been exciting and interesting, but ultimately unsuccessful—heartbreakingly so—and the looming, slightly foreboding visage of the city offered her a soothing sense of familiarity. It was a dysfunctional relationship she had with her city, yes, but at least predictable and consistent in its dysfunction. With Gotham, Annabeth always knew where she stood. For better or for worse, Gotham was home.

And they had come home not a moment too soon. The return journey from Bellingham had been excruciating—it had taken much longer on the way back, and the gentle, humorous banter which had whiled away the time on the way up was now noticeably absent. Instead, Annabeth did her best to concentrate on her work and ignore the significant looks Alfred was casting them both through the rearview mirror. As the hours had worn on, she and Bruce had grown ever more distant, coldly formal, and polite. The silence was heavy; oppressive, really, but Annabeth would make no effort to break it. She had said her piece that morning in her bedroom, and now the rest was in Bruce's hands.

But christ, it hurt. It didn't matter how much she intellectually understood Bruce's reticence and desire to protect who ever was hurting him—that much was textbook, as she well knew. But as a human, as a woman, emotionally, she couldn't accept it, couldn't understand why he didn't try to make it right. It was the secrecy more than anything that she found disturbing; that morning's encounter had finally brought the various little incidents of strangeness to a head, and she had not been able to hold back any more. But...but..._who was it who had given him those injuries?_

These thoughts were preoccupying Annabeth's mind as they slowly made their way back into the city. She had given up trying to work, and was gazing out at the window, yet not seeing the city scenery as it slipped past. The cold dusk was beginning to fall when the Rolls-Royce finally approached her neighborhood and rolled to a stop in front of her building.

And here was the part that each of them—Bruce, Alfred, and Annabeth—had all been secretly dreading. Alfred, because he knew something less than wonderful was unfolding, and Bruce and Annabeth, because as much as their relationship had crumbled in the past twelve hours, they were each loathe to part and solidify the growing wedge between them.

Not surprisingly, Annabeth was the first one to move; it would never be said that she let the grass grow green under her feet. She had immense pride, and she knew better than to hang around in an unhappy situation. As soon as she realized that they were close to her home, Annabeth began packing her things back into her briefcase, blindly shoving her things in any which way. A hard, burning lump was forming at the back of her throat, and her hands were shaking-the only visible betrayal of her sore and hurting feelings and growing disappointment. She could only hope Bruce didn't notice.

He did, of course.

As soon as Alfred had slowed the car to a stop, Annabeth's hand was on the door handle, and she neatly opened the door. Before either Bruce or Alfred could even exit the car, Annabeth was out on the sidewalk, hauling her belongings out of the back seat. She would be damned if they saw one ounce of weak tears squeeze out of her eyes.

Alfred quietly plucked her overnight bag out of the trunk. Bruce got out of the car, but remained on his side, leaning against the door, gazing at Annabeth. If there was an ounce of regret, of disappointment, it was not visible on his face—which appeared to Annabeth to be more achingly handsome than she had ever noticed before.

_Enough. _Unconsciously, she straightened up, stiffening her spine for the long and lonely days ahead. The disappointment was sharper than she could have imagined-what hopes had she harbored, secret even to herself? No matter. She accepted the bag from Alfred, offered him what she hoped was a gracious smile but what she knew in her heart of hearts was more of a death-grimace than anything else. And just before she turned away from him, from Bruce, from the car, from the wreck of the weekend, she caught in Alfred's eyes a look of intense sympathy. It was enough to nearly make Annabeth come undone, and she stumbled past him, not bothering to hide the tears welling up in her eyes, and made her way up the steps. Her keys were in her hand, and she managed to unlock the security door with surprising speed. And so, occupied with this, with making as dignified an exit as possible, she did not take the opportunity to look back. That wasn't Annabeth's style. If it had been, she would have seen the brief look of raw agony in Bruce's eyes, and the deeply disappointed look Alfred had given him.

But Annabeth didn't see this. She was safely in her building, and she wasn't looking back. She straggled over to the elevator, blindly punching the button for her floor, and as she waited for the doors to open, she concentrated on breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Exhale. Focus on that.

She still didn't look back, only boarded the elevator, marveling it could still move at normal speed; the burden of the lead weight in her chest seemed to be dragging her down.

_Almost there._

The elevator doors opened onto her floor, and Annabeth took one more deep breath, strengthening herself for...for what?

_The rest of her life. _She didn't like to admit it, but Bruce had brought an added...sparkle? to her otherwise flat, sometimes grey life. And she had walked away from it, walked away from the love that she had admitted to Elisa what, only two days before? Now, life no longer sparkled. It lay out in front of her, dull, monotonous, isolated...her hands trembled as this thought crossed her mind, and she nearly dropped her keys as she tried to insert them in the lock. She briefly thought of the Rolls Royce out on the curb...and then ruthlessly pushed this thought back. They were long gone, no doubt. Bruce had not made any attempt to get her to stay; he wouldn't, or couldn't.

And beyond the door to her home, what was there? A cold, silent, empty apartment. Janey and Jason had taken her pets for the weekend, so there was not even her cat and dog—those stereotypical staples of spinsterdom—to greet her.

She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened her door. She had made her bed, and she'd bloody well better like it.

Her resolve lasted all of thirty seconds after she had stepped into her home and closed the door behind her. As the silence closed in around her and reality began to assert itself, Annabeth slowly slumped down to the floor and succumbed to the howling sadness within her. Silently at first, and then with growing strength and volume, she began to cry.  
_

"Don't look at me like that, Alfred."

Bruce had been studiously avoiding Alfred's gaze ever since they had dropped off Annabeth. He had avoided it through the crowded roads of the city, through the less-crowded freeways, through the inky black tunnel out of the city (it was easier to avoid Alfred's eyes in the darkness), and through the winding country roads that led through the Palisades. It had become more difficult as they grew closer to their destination, because Bruce was becoming more and more aware of the fact that Alfred would not allow him to weasel past without divulging some information explaining the weekend's unexpectedly disastrous conclusion. Alfred would want to know, and Bruce would have to tell him. When Alfred wanted or expected information from Bruce, Wayne Manor could become uncomfortably small and tight-quartered, indeed.

And now that the car was parked in the over-crowded, under-utilized garage, Bruce could no longer ignore the pointed looks Alfred had been giving him. "_Don't."_

"If I don't, who will?" Alfred was peeved, which was unlike him. "With all do respect sir, _what the hell is going on?"_

Bruce didn't answer him then. He didn't answer at all; merely assisted Alfred with unloading their overnight bags. The other items—the emergency gear, supplies, weaponry, and armor—which had been hidden in secret compartments, away from Annabeth's curious, sharp eyes, would be left there in the Rolls, to await close examination and maintenance performed by a conscientious butler who constantly worried about malfunctioning equipment. Bruce didn't answer as they made their way into the Manor; he didn't answer as, of one accord, they made their way to the secret entrance to the Batcave, and he didn't answer as together they rode the lift down. He didn't answer until they were esconced in the cool, quiet cave, with all the familiar equipment around them. Only then, as Bruce began to regain a sense of...normalcy...did he feel safe and comfortable enough to answer.

"What is going on," he began, and immediately noted with detachment that his voice seemed to carry throughout the cave, "is that today was a day of reckoning. I think Annabeth and I realized we couldn't go on anymore."

"I see," said Alfred. And then, "Go on with what?"

"With...what? With _us. _Dating. She knows something is up. She doesn't know what, but she knows something." Bruce stood at his worktable, gazing down at his blueprints, his half-assembled "toys", his lists, his research, his powerful computer. All of it, the evidence of his other life—his real life. "She thinks you're beating me, for chrissakes."

"Well, the desire is there, from time to time," Alfred observed drily. "But I forebear."

Bruce chose to ignore that. "She saw my back this morning. She wanted to know how I had gotten injured, and I wouldn't tell her. She thinks someone is abusing me, and she wants to help."

If Alfred was curious about how Annabeth had come to see his bare back, he made no comment on it. And presumably, he was well-versed enough in the ways of human nature to accurately guess what had ensued after he had left them the previous night. He merely listened as Bruce described what had unfolded earlier that day. He listened with a heavy heart as Bruce—so stubborn, so fixated, so obsessed—simply stated it as the most obvious and logical conclusion that _of course_ he hadn't told Annabeth anything. Alfred had remained silent through the entire explanation.

_Superheroes could be so damned stupid. _With a supreme effort, Alfred restrained himself from strangling his employer and settled, simply, for a deeply disapproving look, which Bruce pointedly ignored. Privately, Alfred's heart went out to Annabeth.

Alfred watched as Bruce leaned over his workbench, head bowed. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was much more going on inside the younger man than he was choosing to reveal. He knew there was pain there, and disappointment. He just didn't know how to help.

Finally, he decided to withdraw. Without turning around, Bruce asked, "Where are you going?"

"I thought, sir, I could give you some time to work. I was going to head up to the Manor and see how things fared in our absence."

"Wait, I'll go up with you."

Alfred prided himself on his unflappability, his refusal to be floored by anything thrown at him. But here again was something new. "Are you...alright, sir?"

Bruce finally turned around from his workbench, and for one troubling, fleeting moment, Alfred got a glimpse of what Bruce would look like when he grew old. For just a second, he looked like a bitter, unhappy old man, tired and defeated, his physical vitality drained away by the vampire that was Gotham.

"You're not going to work tonight, sir?" Alfred struggled to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "And you won't...be going out, either?"

"Not tonight." Bruce didn't find it necessary to add that he was exhausted. The day had been the most grueling he had encountered in a very long time, and he needed a chance to lick his wounds. Humiliating, perhaps, but true.

Suddenly, unbidden and certainly unwelcome, Annabeth crossed his mind. Was she doing the same? Licking her wounds, going over events in her head, unable and unwilling to embrace the "nightlife" she loved?

Ruthlessly he shoved this aside. He shoved it aside as he rode the lift back up, as he bade Alfred good-night, as he ascended the staircase to his master suite, as he slowly, dispiritedly prepared for sleep. But when he finally climbed into his huge, empty bed, when he finally the pulled the covers up over him, when he finally had a chance to be still and be alone, when he finally was able to gaze up into the darkness, there was nothing else to distract him or demand he put up a front. In his room, there was no Annabeth from which he needed to hide anything; there was no Alfred, for whom Bruce felt compelled to put on a brave front. There was only him, and so, his bravado and indifference abruptly departed, leaving him with some very unpleasant realities.

He had screwed things up with Annabeth. He had exasperated and worried and hurt her, and then ultimately had driven her away. And he had most likely irrevocably damaged a very good, very productive, working relationship. He had gotten involved with Safe Haven because he has suspected Annabeth of selling out her own women, but he had remained involved because Annabeth was a resourceful woman, a useful ally, and because she had enchanted and intrigued him.

Was it really only less than 24 hours since he was with her, in her bed? What an awful difference one day could make. In that amazingly brief time, he had managed to alienate her and drive her out of his life. Without him being aware of it, without her even trying, Annabeth had become a vital part of his existence. She was the human side of Gotham, she represented all that was worthy in his city, all that was deserving of protection. But more than that-he simply loved her.

_Dammit._

But his decision was made, and in his mind, it had been made a long time ago, as far back as when Rachel had walked originally away. There was nothing for him in this life, save for his city. _No man can serve two masters. _Annabeth had known something similar, and had tried to remind him of that. It was his own fault that he had talked her into making a go of it, and so it was doubly on his head for being unable to follow through. But there was nothing for it. They had chosen their paths, and the last day's events had shown how little opportunity there was to take a detour through life and love.

* * *

When Bruce and Annabeth awoke the next morning, each in their cold and lonely bed, neither felt the effects of a soothing, restorative sleep. Rather, they had both been plagued with an unease which invaded their dreams and tormented their rest and had awakened them frequently through the night.

But they were both creatures of habit, and predictable ones at that. They rose to meet the day, their resolve cemented by their sorrow. They would carry on and serve Gotham, the only way they knew how...

Alone.


	35. Chapter 35

Another night in Gotham.

It had been Annabeth's first day back at Safe Haven, commenced a mere twelve hours after returning to her home after the disastrous weekend at Bellingham. Because of the insanity that defined Mondays at Safe Haven, she had been able to justify holing herself up in her office and dealing with the backlog of work, thereby avoiding her colleagues and clients and their questions. She knew they were deeply curious about the weekend, and she knew she would not be able to avoid the subject forever, but she was not yet up to the task of explaining to everyone that she and Bruce Wayne had gone down in flames.

The day had passed quickly, filled as it was with little fires to extinguish, papers to file, emails and phone calls to answer. But the whole day had been curiously dull, lacking in lively conversation, humor, and spirit. Annabeth's spirit was dragging, and it pissed her off to realize it was because she no longer had Bruce Wayne's presence to anticipate and enjoy.

Now, night had fallen. It was Maya's turn to work the overnight shift, but Annabeth had eagerly volunteered to take it on. It gave her more work to do, and it prevented her from having to return home to her lonely, cold condo. And so she remained in her office, burning the midnight oil and trying desperately to ignore the unexpected hole in her heart.

Safe Haven was quiet—most of the residents had retired to their rooms, to sleep—or not, as was so often the case. Every now and then, a small moan or cry would permeate through the thin walls and floors, or a child's muffled sobs would carry through the building in that strange, powerful way that heartbreaking noises had. Annabeth paid no attention to it, however—she had long ago grown accustomed to the nighttime distresses that tormented her scared and worried clients, and while it tore at her heart each time she heard their pain, she knew that she could do nothing. Time was the only thing that would help.

Annabeth sighed and worked on.

Just another night in Gotham.

* * *

Another night in Gotham.

Down at the Naval Tricorner Yards, Barbara Gordon had managed to scout out a suitable neighborhood watering hole. This had not been difficult—her only criteria was that it had to have late hours, attractive patrons, and her favorite whiskey. The Alleycat, just three blocks away from home, happily fit the bill, and Barbara had fast become a regular.

Not that she had much time for slumming. Between her classes and her workout routine and her duties as big sister/surrogate mother, as well as her—_ahem_—research, Barbara had her hands quite full. But every now and then, her father managed to spend a night away from the MCU, and Barbara would get an unexpected reprieve. Tonight had been such a night, and she had left her father struggling to get Jimmy and Hannah to brush their teeth and go to bed. Tonight, it was not her problem.

At her little table, she sat quietly, alone. She enjoyed people watching, and her unusual, punk-tomboy looks didn't always encourage people to come chat her up. This didn't faze Barbara in the slightest—in addition to her blithe irreverence, she possessed an absurd amount of confidence, coupled with a very useful indifference to what most other people thought about her. And so she was able to relax at her local watering hole, uninterrupted, unharassed. Her amused, friendly countenance belied the complex multitude of thoughts that were churning about within her formidable brains...as she sipped her whiskey, she worried over her father and younger siblings, and wondered how her mother was faring in rehab. She pondered her classes, brainstormed research ideas. She reflected on the bleak nature of her re-adopted city. And then she turned her head to the mystery of the Batman...

Right as this shift in thoughts occurred, a woman caught Barbara's eye. She sat at the bar, and Barbara had an unobstructed view of the woman's classical profile, her friendly smile, her crinkled-up eyes. She was attractive, and Barbara's interest was piqued. Abandoning her table, she carried her drink to the bar and settled down beside the lady du jour. And so, her formidable brains were distracted away from the mystery of the Batman—fortunately for everyone.

The Alleycat's main bartender looked on in detached amusement as Barbara chatted up the woman, who turned out to be another regular, and a very friendly regular besides.

It was just another night in Gotham.

* * *

Another night in Gotham.

In the Arrows, down by Wharfside, existence was no better since the arrest of Boy-o. Nature abhors a vaccuum, and the space left by the arrest of Boy-o had been filled quickly enough by a handful of low-level gangbangers eager to latch onto the Arrows' rising constellation. These men were not psychotic, as their predecessor had been; they were coldly sane, and sometimes reasonably intelligent. These ambitious low-lifes did share one or two common characteristics with Boy-o: they were all every cruel and indifferent to human life.

But at least the Boy-o had the reasonable explanation of insanity.

Three of the new recruits to the Arrows were living Wharfside, full-time. Their apartment was fairly decent, for a Wharfside building, and was in fact a piece of real estate owned by Jones le Blanc. As landlords went, le Blanc was fairly ideal—his rent was cheap, and he made no remark about the nefarious activities in which his tenants were engaged. Of course, it didn't hurt that le Blanc _sponsored _said nefarious activities, and oversaw them, to boot.

These three men were not the only tenants in the rather shabby old tenement, but they were the only ones who enjoyed the relative comforts of it. At the moment, there were six other residents in le Blanc's Wharfside property, but they did not exactly benefit from the Arrows' largesse in quite the same manner. Unlike their three male roommates, these six women did not appreciate their lodgings, most likely due to the fact that they were locked into one of the smaller rooms within, and had not been outside or seen the sun in almost a week.

These six women had names, of course, bestowed upon them in the years before they had made the mistake of seeking their fortunes in the accursed city of Gotham, but their three captors had made no efforts to learn them. Names implied humanity, identity, life. The women ranged in age from fourteen to twenty-three; some were curvy, others were on the thinner side. They had only three things in common: they were all Latino, all illegal immigrants, and they all cowered in terrified silence.

They knew what would happen if they spoke to each other.

Four days ago, one particularly spirited girl, Maria, had joined their ranks. For this girl, not talking was not an option—she wanted to know who their captors were, she wanted to know the names of her fellow prisoners, she wanted to know what the hell was going on.

When Victor, the burliest of the guards, knocked out a few teeth, she finally stopped speaking.

The next day, Maria was gone, and the rest of them knew better than to ask what had happened.

It was just another night in Gotham.

* * *

Another night in Gotham.

Down by Maggie McCormick's tavern, the Monday night crowds had not yet started to thin out. The usual suspects were there—the many men and fewer women from the closest factory, stopping by for a pint or three before heading home to their families; one or two old-timers who had been present since opening hours; a handful of women who had seen better days and quite simply had nowhere better to go. They were by and large a decent crowd, more or less honest and hard-working—or at least their livers worked hard. Maggie knew most of them by name, and they all knew Maggie. She kept up a cheerful stream of chatter with all of them, pausing to ask about an ailing parent here, a newborn child there. She was liberal with the drinks, and while she never let a patron bilk her on their drink tab, she had earned quite a reputation for being very generous with food, particularly when someone was a little short before payday. Maggie knew and loved them all, saw them as family, and certainly heard all the family gossip.

Inside the tavern, all was warmth, solidarity, the comfort of other humans—but beyond the tavern, in the menacing and merciless shadows of the cold November night, it was another story. Maggie was busy inside, however, and had no way of knowing that in her back alley, more than one person was lying in wait for her.

The Batman was crouched on the rooftop overhead, at one with the Gotham night. He had a birds-eye view of the alley, and was able to see the two young men—hoodlums, really—who lurked outside Maggie's tavern, near the dumpster. They appeared to be young, relatively confident, and very aware of Maggie's schedule. As the minutes grew closer to 10:30, Maggie's first trash run of the evening, the two loiterers grew more restless, more mentally prepared for whatever they intended to do.

The Batman didn't give them the chance. A few minutes before 10:30, he decided to make an appearance, and dropped, silently, into the alley, directly in front of them. He loomed overhead, a large black mass blotting out the almost-as-black sky.

One of the males let out a startled cry and fell deeper into the shadows by the dumpster. The Batman had a split second to look at him, take in his extreme youth—he couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen—and his extremely high state, before the other male actually charged at him. It was similar to running into a very solid brick wall, however, and upon making contact with the Kevlar-clad muscle mass he almost immediately staggered backwards. He was high, too, and began gibbering in confusion and fright.

Small potatoes, perhaps, but still, useful work. The Batman actually hauled him up and away by his collar, much like an ornery cat, and held him at arm's length. When he was certain he had the attention of both of Maggie's would-be attackers, only then did he speak, and it was a voice of such menace, such coldness, that it would haunt both of them and their highs for months.

"Think again before you invade this turf. McCormick's tavern, the property, the people, are under _my _protection. Don't mess with anyone around here, understood?"

The Batman punctuated this with a none-too-gentle cuff to the head, and then released the kid. Both of them scampered off, and the Batman watched, with more than a few misgivings. They hadn't actually been committing any crimes, but there had been something alarming, threatening, even, about their presence in a dark alley. Their intentions towards Maggie McCormick weren't benevolent, that was for certain. But as much as he would have liked to, he could not simply deliver them to the Gotham PD for the dubious crime of loitering—this part of the city, they would more likely than not simply refuse to send out a patrol to look into it. So he had to simply settle for intimidation, and hope their visions of him would lodge into their drug-addled minds as a cautionary tale.

Having made certain that the two youths had departed, the Batman launched himself up the wall and back onto the roof, where he settled back on his heels to wait for Maggie McCormick to emerge. As he waited, he tried to ignore the rising sense of weary despair. Nothing had changed in his brief absence, that was for certain—he and Alfred had spent the day culling the papers and the police reports for the past weekend, and each had noted that the crime rates were as steady as ever. The only triumph was that nothing exceptionally violent had unfolded over the weekend, when they had been at Bellingham; the crime was more of the standard, big-city variety. But then, the crime which distinguished Gotham from the rest—the mobs, the corruption, the exceptionally creative psychopaths and sociopaths—rarely _just happened_. They took a while to develop, and plot, and reveal their evil deeds. And the Batman could only hope his vigilance would be enough to thwart it all.

These morose ruminations were suddenly interrupted as the work entrance to the tavern crashed open and Maggie came out. Her brassy blonde hair glowed weirdly in the dim alley lights, and she paused for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness. She had a trash bag in each hand, but she promptly dropped them both to fish out her cigarettes and lighter.

He gave her a few moments with her smokes, and then casually, slowly, leaned out over the eves and let drop a batarang. It clattered to the ground, right by her feet, and succeeded in catching her attention. The Batman watched as she knelt down and picked up the rather over-priced emblem. She examined it for a moment before lifting her head and scanning her surroundings. After a moment, her eyes caught the hulking mass of shadow which lurked overhead, and she gave a silent wave.

Once again, he dropped into the alley, but this time, not with the intention to scare anyone senseless. Maggie gazed approvingly at him, took a drag on her cigarette, and exhaled the smoke before remarking, "Looks like you've developed a non-invasive way to announce your presence."

"You're more useful to me if you don't have a heart attack," the Batman agreed quietly. "How are things?"

Maggie deliberately misinterpreted his question. "Believe it or not, this recession's _great _for business. When you're unemployed and miserable, what other choices do you have except to drink?"

"That wasn't what I meant."

"No, but it wouldn't hurt if you mastered the art of small talk." Maggie took another drag. "Things are...weird. Since they arrested that creep, some of the women are coming out of the woodwork, but they're still scared. And I've been hearing something strange."

The Batman drew closer. When he spoke, his voice was menacing. "Strange how?"

Maggie glanced back towards the tavern. "I got friends down here, other bar owners. We...pool our knowledge, try to look out for each other. Other night, one of them was telling us that he'd been hearing something scary. He runs a canteen in the Barrio—" she cut herself off and looked sharply at him, and he nodded, understanding. The Barrio was the neighborhood within the Narrows where a large portion of the Latin American immigrants, legal and otherwise, lived. "He runs a canteen down there, and he was telling us that some of their customers down there were talking about missing girls. Seven in the past week. Young, he said, and most of them here without families. No one really to make a fuss. All of them undocumented, so even if someone _did _want to make a fuss, it wouldn't do any good, they'd likely just get deported."

The Batman was silent, his mind leaping in a thousand different directions as he processed the information and tried to place it in context with all of the other worrisome things in Gotham that seemed to tie back in with the Arrows. Maggie fell back into silence, contentedly puffing away on her cigarette and contemplating heaven only knew what. She had plenty of her own problems, and could not be drawn too deeply into his.

_It never ended. _Each time he began to think that they were coming to the end of the Arrows and their ambitious trafficking plans, he learned something new that just complicated the case even more. Would they _never _limit their damned ambitions? How did this newest information synthesize with everything else regarding them...and more to the point, how could he go about finding the missing girls?

As little as he liked to admit it, both actions would require a consultation with Annabeth de Burgh.

Beside him, Maggie had grown restless and cold. Her cigarette was almost completely gone, but she still took one last drag, sucking as much cancer as she could from it.

"You could just light up a new one," the Batman pointed out.

"Nope. Doctor's getting on my case about it—I'm trying to cut back." Maggie's tone of disgust spoke volumes of what she thought about this advice, but nonetheless, she didn't light up another. "I'll let you know if I hear anything else about those girls. The canteen's called Milagro, if you were planning on paying them a visit. Owner's name is Mike—be nice to him."

She picked up the bags of trash and began to make her way past him and head towards the dumpsters, but the Batman was not yet ready to depart. "I wanted to tell you something."

Not much surprised Maggie any more, but this was one of the rare exceptions. "What is it?"

"Be careful out here. I caught two punks out here earlier...it looked like they knew when you were coming out."

Maggie wasn't surprised. "Sounds like my godson Kingston and his friend. Little fucker got Kingston hooked on meth a little while back—now he tries to rob us all blind. I don't think they would have tried to hurt me—just make off on whatever they could get their hands on."

Thankfully, his mask and cowl hid the look of pity and incredulity the Batman was giving her. Maggie, normally so tough and weathered, now appeared as deluded as the next Gothamite. Inside his head, a voice came back, from across the years, reminding him of a different time, a time of black-and-white thinking: _"Criminals thrive on the indulgence of society's understanding."_

Maggie was still speaking. "I've got no illusions about where I live, and how I will die. Look around." She gestured the filthy, dark alley for emphasis. "Not too pretty, is it? You're about the only one I know who _willingly _comes here. Shit, I'm not even sure why I stick around. I guess inertia's a pretty powerful concept."

She waved half-heartedly at the Batman as she headed back inside, not even waiting to watch his departure.

It was just another night in Gotham.

Excerpt from the Monday, November 24 edition of the _Gotham Gazette_, Society Column, Section B1:

_**Gotham's Prince Reigns Supreme**_

_**Single women of Gotham, rejoice! It appears that Gotham's most eligible prince is not lost to us just yet. Sources report that he was present at the grand opening of the ultra-chic and very exclusive new nightclub, Rumours. Located less than a block from Wayne Tower, it's reputed to become the flagship nightclub owned by Kingston Stewes, the owner and founder of the popular gentleman's **__**magazine, **_**Frisky. **_**Similar nightclubs are scheduled for opening in Las Vegas, New York, and Los Angeles in 2009.**_

_**Most remarkably, Wayne attended alone. Notably absent was his current paramour, Annabeth de Burgh, although it is unlikely one would find her present at such a blatantly regressive venue; such places are hardly likely to appeal to a woman's rights activist such as she...However, the real news story is this: while Bruce Wayne arrived alone, he most certainly did not leave alone. While enjoying the hospitality of the VIP room, he encountered none other than Natascha Cherkesov, Prima Ballerina for the Russian Ballet, whose recent marriage is reputed to be on the rocks already. After carousing through the midnight hour, they departed, reportedly to carry on the festivities at an impromptu private party back at Wayne Manor.**_

_**What this indicates about his fledgling relationship (or was it fling?) with Miss Annabeth de Burgh remains to be seen, but next week's society column no doubt will have more information...**_

That morning, as tongues were wagging all over Gotham, discussing the latest twists and turns in Bruce Wayne's social movements, the man in question was sound asleep, oblivious to all. But not for much longer.

The sound of the _Gotham Gazette _being slapped down onto Bruce's dressing table resounded sharply throughout his bedchamber, and did not fail to have the intended effect of stirring Bruce into wakefulness. He jerked up, for a moment disoriented, and gazed around. It was a moment before he caught sight of Alfred, sitting by his bed and glaring mightily.

"Oh, good, Master Wayne," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut through Kevlar. "You're awake."

"In a manner of speaking." Bruce leaned back against the bank of pillows. "What time _is _it?"

"Seven twenty-five, sir." Alfred answered this in a voice much louder and in a tone much more pointed than his normal, unruffled manner.

The two men squared off in a staring contest that Bruce knew that he didn't have a hope of winning. His eyes kept drooping shut. Dammit, he had come home at two-thirty that morning—a relatively early night for him—and after evenings like that, it was not Alfred's way to wake him up before noon at the earliest. It was more than "not his way", really, it was what the two of them had tacitly agreed upon when Bruce had commenced his nocturnal activities. The fact that Alfred had awakened him early, and none too politely, indicated that the older man was very irate, indeed.

Finally Bruce gave up. "Dare I ask, Alfred?"

"Saturday night, sir. What were you doing?"

"I was...out. Like I told you. Thought I should make an appearance on the social scene." Bruce was being honest, if not entirely forthcoming on all the facts. "Would you...mind closing those drapes? That sun is _really _bright.

"Not just yet, sir." Alfred had stepped out of the role of benevolent and long-suffering butler, and it was not at all clear when he would return. "I'm interested in hearing a little more about what it was, exactly, that motivated you to go to that _bloody _party and drag Miss Annabeth's name—to say nothing of your own—through the dirt and have us all exposed to ridicule in that _bloody _gossip rag."

Bruce was finally beginning to register the source of Alfred's anger. "Ah. Someone caught wind of that club, I guess. Let's see the newspaper."

He accepted the paper that Alfred held out, deliberately avoiding the accusing gaze that came along with it. Quickly he scanned the article, his face betraying nothing until he got to the end. "Private party, eh? Alfred, what _have _you been doing when I'm out at night?"

Alfred said nothing, just fixed Bruce with a baleful glare.

"Okay, yes." Even Bruce knew when to concede, particularly when the person to whom he was conceding had the sole responsibility of making sure all of his life-saving equipment was in top working form. "It was a little...insensitive. But it wasn't really as bad as all that—Vicki Vale didn't write this article, so you know the facts were distorted."

"And what facts were those?" Alfred's voice was still icy.

"We-e-ell...we didn't leave at _midnight_. It was more like eleven. And I didn't do any 'carousing' with her—I dropped her off back at her suite at the Ritz, where her husband was nursing a bad head cold and most decidedly _not _drawing up divorce papers, I might add. And then...I went to work."

He didn't have to specify what kind of work, and Alfred didn't have to ask. But...

"And the club? Rumours, was it?" Alfred's mouth puckered in distaste as he repeated the name. "They made it sound as though it was a high-priced gentleman's club."

"Not far off the mark, I'm sorry to say." Bruce didn't look much happier about it. "I don't think anyone who worked there could have been older than twenty-five. And the outfits..." Bruce shook his head in bewilderment. "How could they move around?"

"How could you go there?" Alfred demanded. "It's _exactly_ the type of disgusting place that Miss de Burgh reviles."

"And that's _exactly_ why I went." Bruce's face was taking on its stoic mask. "It'll be easier for her to move on if she has clear and present reason to loathe me."

There was twisted logic to it, Alfred had to admit, but he didn't have to like it. His heart ached for Bruce, for Annabeth, at the same time that his mind raged against the both of them for their dogged determination to pursue the path of greatest misery. "I think you're both very foolish."

"You're probably right, Alfred. But I don't think it matters any more." Bruce's eyelids were drooping again. "And she probably agrees wholeheartedly."

The anger had gone as abruptly from Alfred's sails as it had entered, and the older man was filled with nothing more exasperated pity for them both. "I repeat, I think you're both very foolish. And I'm sure you would both agree wholeheartedly if you were outside spectators."

"Very likely," Bruce yawned.

"You're agreeing with me, Master Wayne, to get me to leave you to your beauty sleep."

"Very likely." This was a slurred mumble. Bruce was almost gone. "I know you disapprove...can you just disapprove _after_ I wake up?"

Alfred sighed and gave in. He drew the drapes shut, and the room was enveloped in a strange twilight darkness once more, all the more eerie for the fact that it was a bright morning beyond. He moved quietly from the room, casting one last glance at the sleeping form of Bruce, breathing deeply and evenly, looking for all the world as though he were oblivious to the uproar he had undoubtedly caused in Annabeth de Burgh's world.

* * *

"Are you completely oblivious?"

Janey stared across the diner table in sheer amazement, taking in Annabeth as she calmly turned the page of the newspaper and took another sip of coffee. "Annabeth, are you even listening to me?"

"Not when you're talking about what I think you're talking about." There was a razor-sharp edge to Annabeth's voice, the same tone of voice she had used when she had informed Janey a week prior that under no circumstances was she to bring up the name of Bruce—the modifying expletive had made even Janey blush—Wayne. It was a tone of voice that was hard, brittle, and perilously close to wobbling. Janey still recalled the grim set of Annabeth's jaw, how she could practically hear Annabeth's teeth grinding. She would tell Janey nothing about the weekend, absolutely nothing; her eyes had glittered with tears the one time Janey had pressed the issue.

But a week had passed, and Janey's patience was giving way to her curiosity. "Annabeth, what on earth happened between the two of you?"

Annabeth lowered the newspaper and glared at Janey. A tense silence stretched between them.

Suddenly, a frightened squawk startled them both out of their staring contest. Both Janey and Annabeth turned to the source of the noise, and observed Madison Rose huddled in a booth, occasionally batting at invisible tormentors as she babbled incoherently. They watched as Sara set her food-laden tray down at an empty table and settle down across from Rose, speaking soothing words of comfort as she did.

"She's getting worse, isn't she?" Annabeth asked rhetorically, and then turned back to Janey, who was still expecting an answer. "Look, Janey, I really don't want to talk about it. It...it actually hurts. And I feel like I made a right fool of myself."

Janey snorted, in either frustration or exasperated amusement. "That doesn't surprise me. But what the hell am I supposed to think—you guys left and everything was hunky-dory, you come back with a fucked-up face and my evening gown ruined—the drying cleaning bill for that will be astronomical, by the way. Now Bruce Wayne's back to acting like a buffoon and you look like you're chewing glass every time someone says his name. I think I should get to know something."

Annabeth still wasn't giving in.

Janey hauled out the big guns, the time-honored way of all women. It could always backfire—sometimes when women started talking about their defective love lives, it would be the only topic of conversation for another five months—but it was the last resort. "And...it might make you feel better."

It never failed.

Annabeth's shoulders slumped in defeat. "You're right...you're right. I know this. But...it's easier not to talk about it. Not to think about it."

"Coward."

The disgust in Janey's voice was a little hurtful. "Hey!" Annabeth protested. "That's a little unnecessary, don't you think?"

"Nope." Janey glared at her. "I don't know what's gotten into you. You face things head-on, even the things that suck. But when it comes to Bruce, and all things about love, you're a big baby. Jesus, Annabeth, _grow up _and tell me what the fuck happened."

As Janey had suspected, Annabeth responded more positively to rough-and-tumble frankness than to mollycoddling.

"Bruce and I slept together," she blurted out, a little more loudly than she had intended. It had the unexpected result of being overheard by Sara and Madison Rose, who stopped having conversations with her invisible tormentors. Apparently there was still enough lucidity in her to pick up on a choice piece of gossip.

"No shit?" Janey was surprised. "'Bout damned time. So—the question now becomes, why are you sitting around moping like a wet weekend, and not over there continuing to screw each other silly?"

"Oh, we're screwed alright," Annabeth snapped. "Both of us. I don't know what he's playing at, what sort of creepy thing he's involved in, but I can't be involved in it." And so she finally told the sorry story—an abbreviated version of it, anyway. Janey had been correct, of course; some burdens of pain and disappointment were just too much to carry alone, and it felt good to finally have someone else know and see.

"I don't get it." Janey clearly thought her best friend had gone round the bend. "What's the big deal? So he's got a few bruises. He's probably involved in some sort of extreme sports. Spelunking...or BASE-jumping or something. Who knows?"

"It _wasn't like that, _Janey. Not anything like that at all. I've seen bruising like that before, lots of times. Someone had done some serious damage to him, and not only recently." Annabeth frowned as she remembered his broad back, illuminated in the morning light. "There was extensive scarring, too."

Janey knew Annabeth better than anyone, anywhere, and that meant she knew her strengths and virtues as well as her flaws and neuroses. She was a chippy woman, difficult and overly cautious and too obsessed for her own good...but not irrationally paranoid or prone to imagining trouble where there was none. She had damned good instincts, actually, and if Annabeth thought something was up...well. Janey began to give the matter more thought.

"See?" Annabeth was triumphant. "Something's not right, something hasn't been right for a long time with him, maybe ever. He's always acted a little strange..."

"This _is _Bruce Wayne we're talking about." Janey felt the urge, still, to see all points of view. "He's always been a law unto himself."

"I don't give a damn. It's shady, whatever's going on. And Janey, goddamn it, I had just about made up my mind that I maybe loved him..." Janey's eyebrows flew up, and Annabeth's innate honesty compelled her to amend it. "Okay, more than that, I _did _figure out that I did. And dammit, I probably still do. But I can't get caught up into whatever's going on with him. I actually...implied that Alfred was abusing him."

Janey had just taken a sip of water, but upon hearing that, she spat it back out, all over her breakfast plate. "For real?"

Despite her persistent depression over the situation, Annabeth smiled, albeit reluctantly. "In hindsight, I was barking up the wrong tree...but what on earth was I supposed to think?"

Janey's eyes twinkled. "Maybe he likes it rough?"

"A lady never tells." Annabeth said this primly, and added, "Anyway, it doesn't matter. The first time was the last time. I prefer my men to be honest with me."

"I can't argue with that." Janey looked at her best friend sympathetically. "Lord, you really do know how to pick them, don't you?"

"Mmm." The pain would not have been evident to most people, but Janey could see it in Annabeth's dulled eyes, the listlessness in her voice. God knew she remembered how the sparkle went from her days when a love interest didn't pan out. Annabeth was struggling to put a brave face on things, though. "Look, it'll be fine, long term. And it _was _worth it, almost, to see Bruce beat the stuffing out of Seth Percival. But things would just have been too complicated for us. Now I just...move on."

"You think it's just a question of getting on with your life and forgetting you were in love with Bruce Wayne?" Janey smirked. Annabeth was blissfully clueless sometimes.

Any chance of responding was cut off as Annabeth's cell phone trilled, and just like that, they were jerked out of girly confidences. As Annabeth picked up her phone, and saw it was Donna calling, she caught sight of the time. "Shit!" It was just past eight forty-five, and she and Donna had scheduled a meeting at eight-thirty. How the hell had she lost track of time?

_Bruce bloody Wayne, _that's how. Damned man persisted in screwing things up, even now.

"Annabeth, where the hell are you?" Donna didn't sound angry, but then, she rarely did towards Annabeth. It was one of her many redeeming boss qualities. "We were supposed to firm up some of the plans for the Take Back the Night rally."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, time got away from me." Even as Annabeth was struggling to reassure her boss, she was rising to her feet, simultaneously digging around in her purse for money and signaling her apologies to Janey. "I'm just down the block, I'll be there in a few minutes."

"I suppose I can wait a few more minutes." Donna's tone was wryly amused, and she hung up.

"I still want to hear the details!" Janey called at Annabeth's retreating back as she sailed out the door and onto street, immediately getting swept up into the city crowds. It was a bright day, sunny and cold, just a few days before Thanksgiving, and in the air, the last vestiges of autumn clung before winter finally tightened its grip. A blast of chilly wind nudged her forward as a few leaves scuttled past on the same gust, and she could not help but to smile. Between the suffocating mugginess of Gotham in summer and the painful frigidity of Gotham in winter, there were days like this, clear and bright and beautiful.

_There. _She'd show them all—or, more specifically, Janey, who seemed skeptical of her ability to move past the disillusionment of the past couple of weeks. Bruce Wayne had not contacted her since their return from Bellingham, and while this should not have surprised her, it _did _disappoint her. Annabeth had reacted in the only way she knew how: she had thrown herself into her work, pulling long hours at Safe Haven, then returning to her home and spending more hours on her work there. But something had changed, some strange thing within her had shifted...she found herself craving more company, eager for more diversity, more stimulation. She had actually signed up at a neighborhood gym, was thinking about taking night classes at one of the community colleges...

She was keeping herself busy, that was it. Annabeth had to be honest with herself, keeping busy was the only way—and not even a particularly good way—to keep herself from wallowing in misery. It had been unexpected, really, how depressed she had become since her return, and today's article in the _Gotham Gazette _had hurt her far more than she had let on to Janey. But still—it was clear to her that Bruce didn't give a damn about her. That she has chosen to sleep with him when she had meant so little to him was particularly galling...

"Enough," she told herself, quietly. Mulling over this was _not _moving on. It would take time, but she would get past it. Damn it, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, Annabeth finally settled into her own office. She plopped her briefcase and a stack of mail at her already-cluttered desk, settled down, and prepared to face the day. The meeting with Donna had been productive, but good lord, they still had a lot to do.

"And this isn't exactly the best environment to do it in," Annabeth remarked aloud. She gazed around in exasperation and took in her overcrowded, messy office. She really needed to go through and do a thorough cleaning, but there never seemed to be the time.

_And there's sure as hell not time today,_Annabeth sternly admonished herself. _Another day. _She booted her computer and prepared to answer the mass of emails she knew would be waiting.

_Date: 24 November 2008 7:36 AM_

_To: ANNABETH DE BURGH_

_From: COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON_

_Importance: High_

_Subject: Legal Proceedings_

_Annabeth,_

_Earlier in the month, we conferred about the necessity of implementing an immediate name change for the Jane Doe currently in your protection. Normally this legal procedure requires the petitioner to present him or herself at the district court, but given the sensitive nature of the request, in addition to the fact that the petitioner has not yet reached her majority, this is difficult to say the least._

_To that end, I had a word with the new D.A., and as a favor, they are expediting the petition and waiving some of the requirements. To that effect, I've attached the legal documents that need to be filled out by Jane Doe. Print them up, have her sign them, and hand deliver them personally to me, and this should be taken care of very quickly._

_I thank you for your continued cooperation in this matter, as in so many others._

_Sincerely,_

_Jim Gordon_

As Annabeth read this last line, she rolled her eyes. Nonetheless, she printed up the email and the attachments, and moved on to the next email.

_Date: 24 November 2008 8:03 AM_

_To: ANNABETH DE BURGH_

_From: GARCIAMAN_

_Subject: Better left unwritten_

_Miss de Burgh,_

_It has come to my attention that you and your organization have overstepped your bounds regarding this rally that you have planned. While it is commendable that you have such high hopes for a large turn-out, the unhappy truth is that the Christmas holidays and the inevitably cold weather will deeply undermine your attendance. Therefore I must ask that you revise and resubmit your proposal to the city, this time using far more reasonable numbers for your projected turnout. Eight thousand attendants at a feminist march, particularly a first-time event, is simply not a realistic number._

_-Mayor Garcia_

This one, too, Annabeth printed up. The bastard was slippery, that was for certain, and knew better than to send such a condescending email from his city email address. That he could very well be correct was beside the point entirely.

_Date: 24 November 2008 8:30 AM_

_To: ANNABETH DE BURGH_

_From:VICKI VALE_

_Subject: Request for Comment_

_Annabeth,_

_You're a tricky person to get a hold of these days, you know that? I was wondering if you wished to meet for coffee or drinks sometime in the near future—you see, I'm interested to hear if you wish to comment on the recent rumors that Bruce Wayne is back on the Gotham dating scene. I doubt you'll wish to say anything, but you cannot blame an ambitious woman for trying, eh?_

_Happy Thanksgiving,_

_Vicki Vale_

That one got deleted. And it was unfortunate she read it before the very newest in her inbox.

_Date: 24 November 2008 8:56 AM_

_To: ANNABETH DE BURGH_

_From: CHRISTY WELLS_

_Subject: Save the Date!_

_Dear Honored Guests,_

_The holiday season is almost upon us, and even during this time of celebration and plenty, it is vitally important for us to remember those less fortunate, particularly those who are our fellow Gotham citizens. The impending recession further underscores the gravity of our city's precarious financial situation._

_There are many charities and civic organizations within Gotham dedicated to meeting the ever-growing needs of this underprivileged population. Perhaps you are a generous donor, or perhaps you are a dedicated member of one of these organizations—either way, you are invited to attend the 2008 Annual Wayne Foundation Christmas Gala, to be held Saturday, December 13, 2008, 7 PM, at Wayne Manor. Formal invitations will be forthcoming, but please save this date and plan on attending a wonderful holiday gala and fundraiser!_

_Sincerely,_

_Christy Wells_

_Event Coordinator_

_Wayne Foundation_

Annabeth's throat was suddenly dry. She swallowed and brought her cursor up to the "delete" button, and it was only then that she noticed that her hands were trembling. Well, maybe moving on had not quite happened yet...but it would. And she'd certainly have to get herself together before she ran into Wayne, either there at Safe Haven or somewhere else around town. It was already surprising he hadn't been by to visit Safe Haven in the week since they had returned.

"Annabeth." Donna poked her nose inside the door, and the the rest of her body followed suit. She had on her long, velvet-trimmed overcoat, and clutched her purse. "I take it you saw Garcia's email?"

"Unfortunately, yes. He's just as much of a pill as ever."

"Indeed." Donna's eyes twinkled mischeviously. "I think we need to take a trip down to his office to get this sorted out..."

Annabeth's entire face lit up. "A field trip to torment a misogynist politician? I'm in."

"That's my girl." Donna nodded approvingly. "And maybe on the way, you can explain why it is that we haven't seen hide nor hair of your boyfriend lately?"

Annabeth was struggling into her coat, but she paused, just for a fraction of a second. "He's not my boyfriend...and you'll have to ask him." She grabbed her briefcase and purse. "I'm ready."

"Good." Donna nodded. "I thought afterward, since we'll already be at City Hall, we could go down to the Planning Division, see what they think of the initial blueprints for the satellite branch of Safe Haven. And then go down to the main library branch and talk to the Programming Coordinator about running a series of programs on women's self defense."

"Sounds like we'll be out the majority of the day."

"Most likely, but Maya's got things covered. Now, let's go."

The two of them left soon after. Annabeth had hustled out of her office so quickly that it was every bit as messy as when she had arrived earlier, and in fact, a little bit worse, as there were now printed emails and a stack of mail scattered all over her desk, examined and quickly forgotten.

* * *

Much, much later, long after the residents of Safe Haven had turned in for the night, Annabeth's office door creaked open. The lock on the door had been on its last legs for a while, and Annabeth had, in frustration and misguided trust, finally ceased to use it.

_Fool._

The intruder worked quickly and silently, with movements long accustomed to stealth. The lights stayed off, of course—it would not help if some insomniac resident was struck with curiosity and decided to see what quixotic soul was working at this late hour. But a tiny flashlight did the trick just fine, and gave the intruder just enough light to locate what was being sought.

The printed emails, abandoned and forgotten by Annabeth much earlier in the day, caught the intruder's eye. Bringing the light closer, the intruder carefully picked up the papers, making a note of their exact location, and began to scan them. The email from Gordon, with the attached legal documents, were particularly priceless. _Score. _A petition for change of name, from Stacy Baker to Allison Smythe. Expedited due to the petitioner's minority and the security issues—

_Ah-ha. _This was the informant and witness the Arrows had been searching for so frantically, right under all of their noses this entire time. The intruder smiled grimly. Lots of very useful information, right here.

The only question was, what would she do with it?


	36. Chapter 36

Life continued on in Gotham. Bruce continued to avoid Annabeth and Safe Haven, Annabeth continued to ignore the increasingly lurid accounts of his movements, carefully detailed in the Gotham Gazette's Society Column, and Donna continued to avoid the subject altogether. However, any concerns that he had abandoned his project were allayed one morning, the day before Thanksgiving, when Maya came hurrying into Donna's office. "There's an unauthorized delivery."

Donna raised an eyebrow. Given the sensitive nature of their work, there was always a slight risk inherent in what they did. Unauthorized shipments could be anything from an office supply order that hadn't been logged, to a nicely packaged little bomb. Annabeth usually handled these types of issues, but she was in an early meeting with the Mayor and Commissioner Gordon, and so it fell to Donna. She rose, but Maya's next words gave her pause. "It appears to be a rather large load of groceries from Bon Appetit."

"The gourmet grocery store?" Donna's voice was disbelieving. "Are they lost? And why do you need for me to handle it? It's a misdelivery."

"I don't think so...I think it might be from Bruce Wayne."

Their eyes met. Donna lowered her voice. "Why do you think that?"

"Because Bruce Wayne is at the delivery door."

Not for nothing was Maya a rather highly-paid assistant. Donna had no doubts that with her discretion and diplomacy, she would go very far indeed. "I'll take care of it, Maya, thank you."

By the time Donna arrived at the service entrance, she had wiped the surprise from her face, and presented Bruce with her mask of pleasant, unruffled professionalism. "Bruce! It's been far too long. Come in...it's terribly cold out here."

If Bruce was surprised by his warm welcome, he didn't show it...but he also didn't step in. "I can't really stay, Donna...I just wanted to swing by and see how things were going, and make sure you got the delivery of food for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow."

"Oh, is that what this is?" Donna glanced at the stacks of boxes which were quickly piling up around her; Bon Appetit's delivery crew moved with all speed. They had many more deliveries to make before the holidays, but of course Bruce Wayne had smoothly compelled them to place Safe Haven at the top of the priority list. Bruce began to shift the boxes, stacking them inside the door. Donna eyed him as he did, taking in his form, his thick, dark hair, his confident movements. What the hell had he done to drive Annabeth away? It had to be something pretty bad, for her to be willing to walk away from a fine chunk of manflesh..._Enough_. Donna sternly corralled her thoughts back to the present.

Bruce was justifying his gift. "I wasn't sure what you were all doing for dinner, so I thought I would make a gesture of..." Bruce paused, searching for the best word. "Reconciliation? Apologies for my recent neglect?"

"No apologies needed, Bruce." Donna gave him an assessing look. "You're a busy man...at least according to the papers."

Bruce winced. "I guess people really do read those rags, don't they?"

"Mmm. Are you sure you don't want to come in? Annabeth's not in right now, anyway." Donna had a fairly shrewd guess as to why he wasn't over-eager to linger.

"Thanks, but I really do have to go." Bruce smiled. "I have a rather long meeting with the board to deal with..."

A silence, not awkward, but certainly loaded, stretched between them. Donna tilted her head and gazed curiously at Bruce.

"How...how is she?" Bruce asked.

He didn't need to specify who "she" was, and Donna didn't need to ask. "Grumpy and working more than ever,"she sighed. "Bruce...what happened? She won't say a word one way or another."

Bruce appeared to weigh his answer before he told her. "We...had a misunderstanding. And you know Annabeth...and me, for that matter. It escalated..." he paused and ran his fingers through his hair. "Will she be okay?"

Donna nodded. "She's a trooper, our Annabeth. A right pain when she wants to be, but still a tough one. She's upset, I know she is—not that she'll let on, of course, but I've known her long enough to know when she's unhappy...unhappi_er_. I blame myself"

"You?" Bruce was surprised. "Why do you blame yourself?"

"It's my fault you two started spending time together. It never would have happened if I hadn't pressured her into it."

"Thanks for reminding me that she wanted to vomit upon contact." Bruce smiled ruefully, but there was a pain in his eyes he could not disguise.

"You charmed her yourself, though, without any help from the rest of us." Donna felt the need to encourage him. "Still...give her some time. She might come around."

Bruce wasn't an idiot. "Have you ever known her to come around?"

"Well...no," Donna admitted. "Still. There's a first time for everything."

The boxes were all stacked up, and the delivery men were respectfully waiting by the truck, not wanting to interrupt. Bruce noticed them and briefly conferred with them, passing along a hefty tip and his thanks. After the truck rumbled down out of the alley, he rejoined Donna, who had been thoughtfully watching.

"I'm sorry you two don't seem to be working out." She said this gently, with the experience of one who had experienced more than her fair share of romantic disappointments.

Bruce shrugged. It was clear that he no longer wanted to pursue this line of conversation. "I wanted to let you know...there's some wine in those boxes. I hope it's okay...wasn't sure if Safe Haven's a dry residence."

Donna rolled her eyes. "Usually we are, but at holidays, we make exceptions, at least for those who aren't recovering addicts. Although it's a questionable act of judgment on my part," she added as an afterthought.

"What happens?"

"The recovering alcoholics get twitchy, the emancipated minors get sulky because they're still not allowed to drink, and Annabeth drinks all of two small glasses and gets maudlin and begins ruminating over how we're her only family. Sometimes there are tears involved. Want to come?"

"I think I'll pass, thanks." Bruce glanced back down the alley. "I need to get going. I hope you all enjoy the dinner."

"Don't be a stranger, Bruce," Donna said softly. "Our clients love you, and you've completely transformed things here. Don't stay away because of Annabeth."

"I'll come back," Bruce promised. "Just not yet. Maybe next week, I'll bring the newest version of blueprints. And you'll be coming to the charity gala next month?"

"We'll be there, Bruce. Thank you...for everything."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Donna." He gave her a half-smile, turned, and headed back down the alley, at the end of which Alfred presumably waited with the car idling.

Donna stood in the doorway and watched him for a long time after.

* * *

Were it not for Alfred, there would be no holidays at Wayne Manor. With the deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, Bruce's childhood had come to an abrupt and violent end, and he had lost all interest in the typical hobbies and pursuits of a young boy. Still, Alfred had persevered, year after year, arranging holiday meals and entertainments, trying to provide Bruce with as much normalcy as could be expected.

In Bruce's adult years, Alfred was confronted with more of a complicated dilemma. He had long since discharged himself of the duty to provide Bruce with a stable, normal life, particularly since Bruce had so thoroughly and willfully rejected said stability and normalcy. But Alfred _was_ normal, _liked _holidays, and as devoted as he was to Master Wayne, he was not inclined to entirely forsake tradition.

Which was how, on that Thanksgiving, Alfred found himself shuttling a feast down to the Batcave, for him to consume and Bruce to ignore.

One, two, three, four, five trips up and down the secret lift, and finally, Alfred had brought down all the food, all the bottles, all the linens and china and cutlery needed for an elegant holiday dinner fit for the Waynes. Or Wayne, as the case may be.

Silently, Alfred set up one of the worktables, spreading a crisp white tablecloth, carefully laying out two place settings, even lighting arrow-straight candles carefully stuck into a 19th-century silver candelabra. The candles emitted a soft glow that brought a surprising amount of coziness to the dank chill of the cave, but even that was not enough to rouse Bruce from his tasks. Nor were the delicious smells emanating from the carved turkey, nor were Alfred's repeated, and increasingly annoyed-sounding _ahems._

It was not a view that Alfred would have shared with anyone, but it was his own private opinion that Master Bruce Wayne could be more than a little obnoxious when he gave in to his obsessions.

He was certainly in the throes of his obsession that Thanksgiving Day. As Alfred quietly seated himself at the makeshift dinner table and proceeded to bore holes in the back of Bruce's head, Bruce himself was hunched over his personal worktable, researching something on his computer and occasionally making notes on a legal pad. In the past couple of weeks, since there had been no new developments with the Arrows or those who were quietly fighting against them, Bruce had focused his attentions more on Seth Percival. When he had gone after Annabeth, the man had unwittingly made a formidable and lifelong enemy of Bruce Wayne.

Eventually, Bruce looked up. While he had not been in the Batman's armor, he may as well have been; he was certainly in the mode for it. Alfred watched as Bruce became Bruce once more, as he temporarily stepped away from his research and reconfigured his awareness. And then he watched as Bruce became aware of the holiday dinner, and Alfred's semi-exasperated expression.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked unnecessarily as he rose from the worktable. His knees creaked as he did, and he winced. Was he already beginning to show signs of age?

"Anyone's limbs will make that noise if they're in the same position for an infernal amount of time, the way you were," Alfred informed him, correctly divining his thoughts. "And I am simply waiting for you to realize that there is a very delectable holiday meal here, waiting for you." The unspoken rebuke was that the meal had not been the only thing waiting for Bruce to come out of his obsessed reverie.

Bruce had no desire whatsoever to put his research on hold, but even he knew when to uphold domestic harmony. With nary a word of protest, he joined Alfred at the table and silently watched as the butler rose and presented him with a plate heaped full of Thanksgiving goodness. His eyes narrowed as he watched Alfred then move his attentions on to a ice bucket by the turkey. "You know I don't like alcohol down here."

"Wouldn't _dream_ of going against his majesty. You might throw some guano at me." Alfred pulled the cheap-looking bottle out of the bucket. "It's sparkling cider." _You pompous ninny. Probably just as well you don't want alcohol down here, I'd be completely arsed by the time you get home in the morning._

As Alfred poured the liquid into the goblets, Bruce visibly relaxed for the first time that day. "You know, Thanksgiving isn't even your holiday. It's American."

"Yes, and it's a tragedy, what you bloody colonials did to the New World...but what else am I supposed to do with the day? Brainstorm more absurd society scenarios? Check on the price of emu stocks?" Alfred took his seat again and resumed consuming his rather gourmet—if he said so himself—meal.

"You could help me with research."

"We are stalled on that, as I mentioned to you last night, sir." Alfred passed Bruce the gravy boat before he had a chance to ask for it. "We've combed the public reports of Seth Percival's bank and analyzed the finances; it all is quite aboveboard. The other things—getting into his bank and credit accounts and sealed legal files—are illegal."

"And therefore unacceptable?" Bruce took a sip of the cider and winced. Perhaps it was time to re-think his stance on alcohol in the Batcave—and then entertained images of an exasperated and long-suffering Alfred thoroughly soused when the Batman returned in the mornings. _Nope, no spirits in the cave, thank you very much._

"Of course not, sir. Not unacceptable—just more time consuming. When one breaks the law, one must do so carefully. One of the key points of breaking the law is _not _getting caught."

"When it comes to law-breaking, Alfred, you seem to speak with an alarming amount of authority." Bruce eyed him affectionately. "Anything I need to know about?"

"Don't ask, don't tell." Alfred smiled mysteriously.

"Because that's worked so well for the U.S. Military?" Bruce shook his head. "Anyway, to return to the subject at hand, you've turned up nothing new on Seth Percival?"

"Only the knowledge of some sealed court files, back from where he came from in Chicago. We can get them unsealed through the Spelunkers—" that was their name for the team of Colorado-based hackers that was employed by one of Wayne Enterprise's less renowned subsidiaries. In all truth, the Spelunkers were nothing more than two anti-establishment, sibling adolescent gamers who enjoyed their untaxed paychecks and knew better than to ask questions-— "but it takes a while. They're keeping me updated."

"Do we have any idea what's in the files?" Bruce was starting to lapse back into his obsession. "I think if we focus on Seth, we can crack this thing. He's the weakest link."

"Well, as to that, you know far more than I. But regarding the files, it's too soon to tell. Nothing too obvious has come up, but I think one of the young Spelunkers mentioned some traffic court issues. And they haven't hit the family court files; there may be something in there."

"Hmmm. Maybe because he was arrested during an attempt to introduce his wife to the back of his hand?" Bruce's eyes glinted in anger. "The sooner we find out the goods on him, the better this will be. What about his business associates?"

"No particular man or woman has been standing out. But there are quite a few." Alfred caught sight of Bruce's exasperated expression. "For pity's sake, Master Wayne, the man's a prosperous _banker. _He's going to enjoy a certain level of visibility around the city...probably outside of the city, too."

The two men fell silent as Alfred savored the food and Bruce simply consumed it. For Alfred, food could be an art form, a celebration of life; for Bruce, it was merely fuel, a means to an end. Still, Bruce felt the need—again, driven by an appreciation for domestic harmony—to compliment Alfred. "It's a wonderful meal, Alfred...it's just a shame that I can't really focus on it.

"No matter, sir. I'm sure the Safe Haven ladies are enjoying it...it's the same meal as the one you had me order from Bon Appetit." Alfred looked very pleased with his streamlined way of running things.

"You really think they'll like it?" Bruce didn't want to think too much about the "Safe Haven ladies", as Alfred had so quaintly phrased it, but he could not help but to ponder about one particular lady at Safe Haven. Annabeth, damn her, had lodged into his brain, and no amount of demonic energy invested into his work appeared to remove her.

Alfred was unaware of any of Bruce's morose ponderings. He was relishing a mouthful of smashed rutabagas with ginger-roasted pear relish. Only after he swallowed did he confidently assure Bruce, "I'm sure they are enjoying the meal every bit as much as we are."

* * *

"What the _hell _is this crap?"

The thirty-some odd women and children gathered around the dinner tables gazed in dismay at the feast that Donna, Maya, and Annabeth had prepared. Except the for the strident protest that came from Stacy, the smart-mouthed kid that Gordon and the Batman had entrusted to Annabeth, the rest of them were silent.

"It's a..." Donna glanced over at Annabeth, who had already consumed one glass of wine as they were warming the epicurean, prepared food. "It's a gift from Bruce Wayne."

Silence, punctuated only by a tiny hiccup from Annabeth. She reached for the Chardonnay.

Maya began carving the turkey, which thankfully still resembled the more bourgeois fowl most of their clients appreciated. "It's delicious, I'm sure. Just a little fancy-pants."

"Fancy-pants?" Stacy mocked her. "Christ, where I come from, we call it snobby and _gross."_

The rest of those at the dinner table maintained a diplomatic silence, but it was clear by their expressions that they didn't think much, either, of the smoked oyster and lotus leaf stuffing, the pureed yams, and the miso-rubbed turkey. Maya was beginning to dread the unveiling of dessert, a fig crostata that she had briefly contemplated passing along to one of the homeless folks on the street.

_Rich people._

"It doesn't matter," Annabeth tried to cheer them up. "It was a nice gesture, anyway. And who cares about food? We're all here. I'm happy to be here, surrounded by the people I love and trust."

Maya and Donna cast each other knowing, helpless looks.

"I don't have family," Annabeth continued on, not noticing that her twelve-year-old seatmate at her left elbow had surreptitiously moved her wine goblet away from her. "It used to bother me a lot more than it does now, because _now, _I'm here. I'm lucky—to have Donna and Maya and the rest of you, I am truly blessed. I trust you all, and _you're _my family." She reached for her goblet, frowned, and then improvised with her water glass, which she raised high. "So here's to Thanksgiving, high-falutin meals, and surrogate families."

They all humored her and raised their glasses, but as soon as they lowered them, Donna focused her attention at the problem at hand. "So, we've got a meal that's not really appealing to any of us, and the cook is taking the day off...Maya, what's stockpiled in the kitchen?"

"Frozen pizza, instant mashed potatoes, and pop-tarts."

Like the irreproachable leader she was, Donna knew when to pitch in. "Perfect. Annabeth, come help me improvise an alternative dinner. The rest of you, stay put and try to eat what you can of this...it'd be a shame for it to go to waste. Except for you, Stacy—" she fixed the young punk with a sharp stare. "Since you objected so strenuously to the original meal, you can help us throw together the follow-up."

To her credit, Stacy followed them without protest to the kitchens, and helped them round up the food Maya had described. Annabeth actually found an unopened economy-sized jar of peanut butter and a fresh loaf of bread, and set Stacy with the task of creating a stack of sandwiches for the younger kids. Having thus occupied her, Donna and Annabeth began to heat up the pizzas and stir the potatoes.

"It _was _thoughtful of Bruce to send along that meal, though," Donna remarked, as though they had been speaking of it all along. "How's he doing these days, anyway?"

The wound that Annabeth had been so carefully tending had not healed, not by a long shot, but it didn't flare up in raw pain as much anymore. "I haven't seen him in a while, Donna, _you _know that. And what are you asking me for? You saw him yesterday." She was pleased to hear her own voice sounding so indifferent.

"Well, I wasn't sure if you had heard anything from him," Donna lied. "I just thought it was a little odd...you two seemed to be doing okay there earlier this month. I almost thought...I almost thought you two may have been...I don't know, falling in love or something."

Neither of them noticed that Stacy had abandoned her task of making sandwiches and was listening, fascinated.

"It doesn't matter, Donna." Annabeth's voice sounded less indifferent, and more clipped. "Do we have to talk about this?"

"Well, yes, actually, we do." When necessary, Donna did not hesitate to assert her authority. "Whether or not you're shagging Bruce Wayne, he remains the main support of this institution, and we need to stay on his good side. I don't know what happened with the two of you, but I do need to know that the two of you can maintain a cordial working relationship."

"Yes." Annabeth's voice was even more clipped, and her heart twisted. How much of her healing process had been helped along by the fact that Bruce hadn't shown his face around Safe Haven? And how much would he throw off her equilibrium if—when, more like—he started back again? Would she even be able to continue to work around him? This was all much more difficult than she had thought it would be. Would it be better for Safe Haven if she left? She had so many conflicting emotions twisting around inside of her when it came to Bruce—hurt, confusion, anger, disappointment, all of the standard run-of-the mill feelings that tormented all the lovelorn saps of the world—she wasn't sure she could be trusted not to yell, hit, or snap at him, or worse, try to shag him. She paused in her culinary task and bowed her head, overcome with a savage pain as she thought about leaving. But if it were for the best...oh god, the tears were starting to overflow.

"Annabeth?" Donna was prodding the wound. "I need for you to promise me you can work with him."

That did it. Annabeth, goaded beyond her already-limited ability to control her emotions, lifted her head and didn't bother to wipe the tears now streaming from her eyes. "_Yes!_ Christ, Donna, what kind of high school girl do you take me for? I can handle myself around him, just stop nagging me!"

The two women stared at each other. It was difficult to say which of them was more surprised by Annabeth's outburst.

"God, Annabeth." Stacy's scornful voice brought their attention back to their surroundings. "Get a grip. Geez, why do you always have to be so bossy and bitchy and touchy? You on the rag or something?"

Donna hid a smirk.

Annabeth wasn't so amused. "Don't be crude," she snapped. "Think about what you're saying...it's okay for men to be assholes and bossy, it helps them get ahead in the world and they do it deliberately, but when a woman acts the same way, it's because she must be _hormonal. _There has to be an excuse for her to be like that, because god knows, she isn't _normally _like that..."

The anti-patriarchy soapboxes that Annabeth got onto could sometimes carry on for quite a while, and very few at Safe Haven paid her any mind. It was, as Maya had once commented, as though "someone wound her up, and the winder broke, so now she just _goes." _It was easier to just let her go until she wore herself out, and that was what Stacy and Donna did, simply carrying on with their tasks and registering every third word or so. They did that right up until the moment that Annabeth abruptly fell silent.

Stacy noticed first. "Annabeth? You okay?" She stared hard at Annabeth, who was very still, gazing down at the floor, lost in very deep thoughts.

"Annabeth?" Donna was paying attention now, too. "Is everything alright?"

The sound of her boss's voice was sufficient enough to bring Annabeth out of her reverie. She shook her head slightly and re-focused on Donna. "I'm sorry...I got distracted there for a moment. I was remembering...something someone said."

And just like that, Annabeth resumed her task. Soon after, the three females headed back into the dining room, bearing foods that were more palatable to the less adventurous of their clients. Amid the appreciate laughter and clapping, it was easy for Donna and Stacy to forget Annabeth's strange behavior and get caught back up into the festivities. It was forgivable that they didn't notice that, for the rest of that day, as the celebration and merriment swelled, Annabeth didn't participate much, and was very preoccupied indeed.


	37. Chapter 37

Trinity was going to vomit.

She couldn't even remember the last time that that had happened—it was such a common, nasty thing to do, really, and it was something that every fiber of her graceful, dignified soul eschewed. Vomiting, in Trinity's world, simply _wasn't done._

Except for now.

The efforts she had invested in restraining the urge had been heroic, indeed. She had paced out onto her balcony several times, where she had breathed in gulps of the biting, 19-degree night air. She had pinched herself, given herself a stern talking-to, she had even dashed out to the 24-hour corner shop, where she had purchased a ginger ale—diet, of course—but all these efforts had simply delayed the inevitable. As Trinity made her way back from the store, clutching the useless soda bottle, she realized heading out into public had been the worst mistake; what if she actually lost her stomach there on the street? Humiliating. But miracle of miracles, she managed to make it back to her soothing, beautiful home without disgracing herself in public. However, once she was ensconced within the relative safety of her own four walls, she knew her ability to quell the rising nausea was finally going to fail.

She was leaning against the front door, allowing the tears to stream down her carefully made-up face, when it finally happened. The last overpowering wave of nausea washed over her, sucked her under, and she was only dimly aware of dashing through her home, past the fresh-cut flowers, the original artwork, the photographs of herself and her friends, into the bathroom. And there, amid the luxury she had so carefully and proudly cultivated over the years, Trinity finally let go. As she knelt at the toilet and alternately vomited and sobbed, it occurred to her that she hadn't just lost control of her stomach. She had lost control of _every _aspect of her life. And so, as Trinity let go of the contents of her stomach, so to did she let go of everything else. Her life was in shambles, utterly wrecked, and she had no idea how to rebuild it.

And strangely, that was the least of her problems.

It was all Donzetti's fault, of course. Until her dying day, Trinity was going to blame that damned s_chweinehund_for anything and everything that went wrong. In this case, it had been his abrupt departure and prolonged absence which had lulled Trinity into complacency. Without him about, pawing her like an inept and libidinous adolescent, she had had to spend far less time with the Arrows. While this had resulted in the unfortunate consequence of yielding no new information for Annabeth and her loony, dressed-up comrade-in-arms, it did free up Trinity's time and enable her to rehabilitate her nearly-extinct social life. The Winston wedding weekend had been her first tentative step back into Gotham's treacherous social waters, but when Trinity had received no rebukes from le Blanc or his cronies, she had grown bolder. She hadn't resumed her...former business, of course, and she had stuck mainly with her female or gay friends and acquaintances, but still, she was being seen. It was, as she had baldly informed Annabeth, good for business.

And it was good for _her, _too. By Thanksgiving weekend, she was feeling relaxed, almost happy. Certainly confident enough to _really _hit the town. The entire weekend had flown by in a blur of posh restaurants, extravagant shopping excursions, laughter, too many drinks, late nights at very exclusive clubs, dodging the paparazzi, _god, _it had been wonderful. She could, if she really tried, forget the damned Arrows and the havoc they had brought into her life.

But the Arrows weren't going to forget her. The real world came crashing down on her, quite rudely, the Monday evening following that grossly indulgent Thanksgiving holiday. She had spent the majority of the day recuperating, only rising around dusk to prepare for a quiet, solitary dinner out at her favorite neighborhood restaurant. By eight, she was ready, dressed in Ralph Lauren (a little pedestrian, perhaps, but so elegant yet functional) and fastening her pearl earrings, when her intercom buzzed.

Trinity paused, struggling to remember if she had invited anyone to join her on her precious, private evening. She couldn't remember, but nonetheless hurried over to answer the intercom. "Yes?'

"le Blanc here."

At the sound of his cold, no-nonsense voice, Trinity's heart plummeted, but even on the verge of panic, her survival instincts were strong. Scarcely recognizing her own voice, she purred, "Well, hello...stranger. Please, come up."

In the two minutes it took le Blanc to invade her personal territory, Trinity managed to compose herself. She even forced herself to recall his drink of choice—scotch on the rocks—and have it waiting for him as she opened the door and greeted him. He glanced at it as he walked in and simply remarked, "I'm not one of your johns to keep happy."

He still took the drink, though.

Soon Trinity was fixing his second. By that point, le Blanc had settled himself comfortably on the couch and was watching her. "You're not going to have one?"

Trinity brought him the refreshed glass and then seated herself in an armchair across from him. "I'm watching how much I drink. I've put on a few pounds lately." It was a bold-faced lie, of course; Trinity simply preferred to avoid alcohol-dulled senses around le Blanc and his crowd. But when it came to understanding women, le Blanc lacked nuance, and it seemed a reasonable explanation, coming from a female, so he questioned her no more. He simply nursed his drink as Trinity remained patient, quiet, and unquestioning.

Finally, he spoke. "Donzetti's in a tricky area right now, so phone contact is spotty. He should be back by the middle of December."

Trinity brightened. "It'll be nice to see him again." _The vomitous prick._

"I'm sure he'll be glad to be back," le Blanc agreed. "It's a long time to be gone from his creature comforts."

_It's a long time for the worthless dirtbag to be gone from the luxuries he's bought with other peoples' blood. _"Well, Michael _does _enjoy the benefits of a sophisticated metropolis."

"Indeed."

Their eyes met, and wisely, Trinity remained silent. It was one thing for le Blanc to imply criticism towards his right-hand man, but it was more than Trinity's life was worth for her to offer a negative opinion.

"Trinity, my dear, I do believe I've under-estimated you."

"Oh?" Trinity kept her tone light, almost indifferent. "How so?" _Where the hell was he going with this?_

He took a moment to find the right words. "When I first met you, I'm sorry to say I dismissed you, immediately. We had so many ladies in your, ah, field, that I just made certain assumptions. Now I see that that was to my own loss. Well, it took me a while to see you're obviously a woman of great class and style. As much as I love Donzetti, it's clear you're out of his league. Mine too," he hastily added, seeing the look of alarm on her face. "As lovely as you are, you're not what I want in a woman."

"Uh...thanks, I think." Trinity didn't have to feign her confusion. "I am really not sure where this conversation is going."

"You're a woman in a million, Trin." le Blanc looked her over with an appraising eye. "You hooked up with Donzetti for your own survival, and I respect that. But you also did it with style, and you made my friend happy, and so I'm grateful, too. But here's the thing—Donzetti gets bored. He's a one-woman man, sure, but he never stays with one woman for too long." le Blanc leaned forward. "But I don't want the Arrows to lose you. I think you're a damned good businesswoman, and I _know_ I've got the perfect job for you. How are you with languages?"

The abrupt change in conversation was giving Trinity mental vertigo. "Uuuh...passable Spanish. Decent French. A tiny bit of German." She gave le Blanc a lewd grin. "Gleaned that from fucking the German ambassador."

le Blanc smiled briefly in absent-minded appreciation, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "No Czech? Or Russian?"

"Good god, no."

"Hmmm. Still, you could pick it up if you needed to, probably pretty easily, too. You have a passport? Like to travel?"

"Of course."

"Of course," he agreed. "What would you say if I told you I had a...unique international job opportunity for you?"

"Job opportunity?" Trinity echoed.

le Blanc smiled mysteriously. "Come with me."

Her field trip with le Blanc lasted a few mere hours, but would haunt her for possibly the rest of her life.

Trinity had joined le Blanc in the back of his car, listening in what was at first intrigued, and then appalled, silence as he explained his plans.

"Donzetti's having a difficult time recruiting—right now he's in Holland, purchasing some goods from the dealers who're already set up there. But we want to go at this from more of a..." le Blanc paused, searching for the right word, "...wholesale angle. We want more control over the original goods, and we want to spend less money up front. Cut out the middle man as much as possible. We want to get in there, on the ground, recruit our own."

"Our own what?" Trinity had grown tired of this evasive language. "We're talking flesh, right? Women?"

"Girls," le Blanc corrected. "We need them young, no older than their early twenties. But Donzetti just can't waltz in to Eastern Europe and start recruiting him...you know how he is."

"I do." She did. Donzetti, bulky and sleazy and intimidating, would scare off even the most desperate girls, no matter what dreams of wealth and easy jobs he dangled in front of their Communism-dulled eyes.

"So this time around, he's in Holland, purchasing some girls who've already been processed and broken in, who already have documents. They're more expensive, of course, which is why we need to get better at recruiting. We need to get someone more glamorous, someone that can get these girls to trust them."

"Me?"

"You." le Blanc nodded to the driver, who started the car. "You're perfect for it. Just go over there a couple of times a year, recruit, work with the local immigration offices and ambassadors. We've got some local people on the ground who can help. They know which officials to bribe, they know where the most desperate girls are...and then you come back stateside and help break in and train the merchandise."

"Break in? Train?" Trinity's mind was swirling. Since when had she become a dog trainer?

"You know what I mean—don't be stupid." For the first time, le Blanc became impatient. "You know as well as I do that a woman will be able to gain their trust more easily—and then crush it. It's a perfect way to keep the goods under control, and you're perfect for it."

It was the most disturbing—and insulting—thing anyone had ever said to Trinity.

le Blanc carried on. "We'll get you started in breaking in the first batch, and while you're doing that, start picking up the Eastern European languages. You should be ready to head over there for your first business trip by the middle of next year."

It was as he was saying this that Trinity began to experience the first wave of nausea. "So...where is this 'breaking in' going to happen? And how many are we talking here?"

le Blanc smiled in satisfaction. "See? You're a natural businesswoman. Already eager to plan the logistics and get started." He sounded absurdly pleased with himself. "Not too many to start with—Donzetti's only bringing in about twenty or so, this first time around. But we do want to expand, and goodness, we _do _have the space." le Blanc nodded confidently. "You'll see what I mean."

Dread lurked at the edge of Trinity's awareness, and the nausea grew stronger. Ruthlessly she ignored this anxiety and nausea and turned her attention to the cityscape sliding past. They were heading into the Narrows. _Nothing good can come of this._

Even so, Trinity was unprepared for the horror that confronted her as they eventually entered the stash house. They had been greeted by three of the most frightening goons she had ever had the misfortune of encountering—cold and silent, they merely gazed at her briefly, appraisingly, before ignoring her for the rest of the evening.

"They're certainly not Boy-o," le Blanc had whispered in her ear. "Of course, these were the best we could do on short notice."

Trinity didn't answer. She was too busy trying to carefully find her footing as she headed up a dimly-lit staircase. Briefly, she wondered if she was heading into a trap, but somehow, she doubted it.

At the top of the stairs, the thugs paused in front of a door—a door which appeared much newer and sturdier than most of their surroundings. There was a rattle of keys being fitted into locks, and then the goons swung the door inward and stepped aside to allow le Blanc and Trinity to pass.

The smell hit Trinity before her eyes had a chance to adjust to the dim room. It was a smell of unwashed bodies, stale food, and sex, but there was something else, some other scent, too. Something undefined, and while she hoped she would never have anything else to which she could compare it, Trinity was pretty damned sure she was smelling fear.

_Why was it so dark?_ There were only a couple of naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting only the most minimal illumination around the room. Trinity didn't need much light, however; her avid, quick gaze took in all she needed to see. Again, the nausea rose up within her, but with a supreme effort, she quelled it and managed to keep her expression only mildly curious, masking the shock and disgust that she was genuinely experiencing.

"Our guards here got a little ambitious," le Blanc remarked, his tone implying that he was not yet certain that this was a good thing. "Down in one part of the Narrows, there's a Little Mexico district. Lots of illegals, here on their own, no one to miss them, just ripe for the taking. So they took."

Wordlessly, Trinity took in the "contraband." Young women, heartbreakingly young, were huddled on dirty mattresses; some of them looked up at her fearfully, but others didn't acknowledge her at all, preferring to stay curled up on their mattresses and ignoring their captors. The room was cold, and Trinity quickly surmised that there weren't enough blankets to go around. "Who are they?"

"Who knows?" le Blanc shrugged. "It's not important. What's important is that we got them for free. No one to miss them, no one to care, since they're illegals. Fairly expendable, actually, but we might get some money out of some men that want to take their frustrations out on the immigrant population. Our boys here-" he jerked his head over to the goons "have been breaking them in. Right around the time that our European shipment comes in, these girls should be ready to hit the streets. Good teaching tool for the new girls, I think."

_Nausea again._ Trinity forced her voice to remain indifferent. "I can't imagine that a room like this is conducive to any sort of...activity."

"Nope." le Blanc looked very pleased, no doubt impressed with her eye for detail. "But it's a big building—there's plenty of rooms we're fixing up for business. It's cheaper, though, to keep the girls in small rooms...except for the problem ones."

"'The problem ones?'" Trinity echoed, although she was fairly certain she didn't want to know.

One of the goons chuckled.

"Oh, you know, there's always a few." le Blanc said this off-handedly, as though he were describing an rainy day, annoying but inevitable. "In this case, her name was Maria. Wouldn't shut up—so the boys here took care of things."

"The boys" grinned.

"How so?" Damn it, Trinity wanted to stop asking questions, but the morbid side of her, the side that kept saying, _Look what you've gotten yourself into_, would not be satisfied until she knew.

le Blanc smiled mirthlessly. "Let's just say it's quite convenient that we're located Wharfside here. Disposal is quite easy, and with the amount of chemicals in the river up this way, it won't be long before any...remnants...are decomposed."

The girls on their mattresses gave no indication of having heard this. Trinity suspected it had less to do with shock or catatonia and more to do with not wanting to be noticed. Being noticed by these men would not lead to anything good.

Trinity was many things—an ambitious woman, a very highly-paid prostitute, a clever scholar and observer of the human condition, a shallow yet pragmatic woman. She was all of this, and much more. But she never kidded herself about being a particularly compassionate or altruistic specimen of humanity, She had never thought herself particularly capable of such depth of emotion or charity, but on that night, as she saw the most wretched and unloved creatures in Gotham, she surprised herself. Her shock was outweighed only by her instinct to comfort, to protect the girls who had found their unlucky way into le Blanc's stash house; she wanted nothing more than to take them as far away from their squalid surroundings and their frightening future as was possible. And the real bitch of it was that not only could she not do that, she had to act as though she didn't care.

Trinity yawned. "Okay, so you've shown me where you're going to keep them. I suppose it will work, although you might want to groom some of the nicer-looking Natashas for something a little bit better. When do we expect them?"

_It's all for the greater good,_ she told herself as she followed le Blanc out of the room and back down the stairs. She forced herself not to look back at the girls. _All for the greater good._

That's what she told herself through the entire ride back out of the Narrows, back to her home. It was what she told herself each time she questioned le Blanc, trying to get as much information as possible.

When did he say that Donzetti and the merchandise were scheduled to arrive? _All for the greater good. _Mid-December, she was told. The majority of the shipment would come through Mexico—porous borders and easily-bribed officials.

What sort of work were they going to be doing? _All for the greater good. _Peep shows, strip clubs, some prostitution and escorting, mainly.

What was going to happen to them after they wore out? They did have a limited shelf-life, after all. _All for the greater good. _le Blanc didn't have a satisfactory answer for that one, and Trinity chose not to pursue it. She didn't want to betray her hand by showing too much concern.

It was the performance of a lifetime.

And now Trinity was back in her home, away from le Blanc and his disgusting plans, but it felt as though she was never going to escape from the filth of what she had just seen. She lifted her head from the depths of her toilet and decided that she had had enough. Not just of the vomiting—she was fairly certain that she had nothing left in her stomach to eject—but of all of it. She wanted to be done with the Arrows—after seeing those girls, sequestered away, and imagining the next group coming in, she realized how good she had it, and how so few had it that good. It was time to bring it to an end.

Action. Action made her feel less helpless, and so Trinity arose and began to regroup. First thing was to visit Annabeth, get her to initiate contact with...whoever it was. The police, the costumed vigilante, Mickey Mouse, whoever. When Trinity had done her research on Annabeth, she had learned where she lived, and so that was where Trinity would journey to. It was bitterly cold out, so she changed into her warmest and least obviously stylish clothes and bundled into her oldest coat. Briefly she debated hoofing it the whole way there, but Annabeth's condo in Bordertown would take her through the part of the city with which she was less than familiar—after all, her clients and friends only live in downtown, or else in the Palisades. So, a taxi it would be, although she did decide to grab one a few blocks away. Trinity doubted the Arrows were watching her or her condo—one of le Blanc's many weaknesses was a tendency to trust too much, which was why so many girls had gotten brave enough to defect in the first place—but she didn't want to take a chance.

So she exited her building through the service entrance and moved quickly through the back streets, keeping to the shadows. She moved quickly and with confident strides, unconsciously imitating the gait of the crusader she was on her way to see. Trinity's fear and disgust receded with each step, replaced with a righteous anger, a fierce sense of purpose. Surfacing a few blocks up on Broadway, it took minimal effort to hail a cab, and soon she was on her way.

The cabbie looked a little surprised as Trinity ducked into his back seat and gave the address—what the hell was a stylish, obviously monied woman like this blonde broad doing? What business could possibly bring her to Bordertown? He knew better than to question it, however—anything went in Gotham. And this particular cabbie knew better, too, than to question why his beautiful fare asked him to turn down random side streets and keep an eye out for anyone that could be following him. She saw his surprised look, and quickly produced an enticing wad of bills. The cabbie was a North Korean with questionable documentation and three children, and so he would have dangled from the the top of Wayne Tower for a tip like that.

It was Gotham—anything went.

The North Korean cabbie was one of the best Trinity had ever encountered. He drove quickly, erratically, and unquestioningly, not even behaving as thought it were odd or untoward for one to be huddled in the back seat of his cab, only peeping up every now and then to check the traffic behind them. With the cabbie's skill and eagerness to lay claim to Trinity's promised hefty tip, they arrived in Bordertown much sooner than Trinity would have imagined, thereby undermining forever her belief that Bordertown was remote and not a part of her Gotham. It didn't matter, though—she was there. Trinity had arrived safely, with no one trying to stop her. Perhaps they would all get through this.

As she scurried up the steps to Annabeth's building and buzzed the intercom, Trinity sighed with relief and leaned her head against the door. Thus engaged, she didn't notice the brief movement across the street. Someone _had _observed her. Despite all her admirable efforts to escape notice, Trinity had failed.

In the moments before chaos and disorder descended upon the house of Annabeth, she was at the tail-end of an unusually peaceful evening. She had gotten home from work at a decently early hour, which was highly unusual, and had decided to take a personal day off the next day—equally unusual. She had even splurged in a delicious delivered Gotham-style pizza. She had thrown on her warmest flannel pajamas, had curled up on her living room floor, lit a few candles, put on some music, and surrounded herself with—predictably—work. But to top off this most unusual of nights, her work was of a personal nature, rather than professional. She had surrounded herself in bank statements, mortgage paperwork, old letters, neglected mail. Annabeth was cleaning house. Clearing the decks. The hours ticked on, the night grew darker, and still she plowed through, losing track of time. All was serene.

And so, it only stood to reason that life, being the fickle bitch that it was, would throw a curve ball—or several—through the window of her quiet life and shatter that serenity.

The thumping on her door was loud, sudden, and insistent, and it startled all the living inhabitants. Wurzel, in predictably feline fashion, shot three feet into the air and landed in the still-open pizza box, thereby killing off any of Annabeth's hopes for leftovers. She had half a second to observe the trail of tomato sauce which immediately appeared as Wurzel streaked across the living room and into her bedroom, before the thumping began again. Jed whined and looked up at his mistress, his eyes limpid and worried.

"You're useless," Annabeth told him as she struggled to her feet. "What kind of dog are you? Why don't you just go open the door for them while you're at it?" This scolding had less to do with her dog and more to do with keeping herself calm. A glance at the cheap clock which had ticked on the wall since its procurement at one of the suburban SuperTargets told her that it was almost midnight; who the hell would be inclined to pay her a visit at this hour?

Few people came to mind, and none whom Annabeth cared to talk to. "Just a minute," she called, and then darted into her bedroom. The aluminum baseball bat stood at attention as it always did, like a latter-day sword, and she grabbed it. Not likely she would need it, but one never knew.

A quick glance into the peephole provided as much reassurance as it did confusion. There was no mistaking the woman that stood on the other side of the door, but what the hell? It wasn't a good idea for her to be here; it could put them both in danger. Annabeth couldn't afford to be in danger. Not now.

She jerked open the door. _"What the hell?"_

Trinity burst into tears.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! Geez." Annabeth took Trinity by the elbow and pulled her out of the hallway, checking behind the taller woman, looking right and left and making sure no one else was there. "Shit, I know I'm a bit of a bitch, but there's no need to cry about it. I'm sorry." She shut the door firmly behind her and gazed in amazement at Trinity. "What in god's name has gotten into you?"

Trinity couldn't even begin to say. All she knew was that, as soon as she was confronted with the image of Annabeth standing in front of her, humble, unpretentious, dressed in some ratty pajamas, for god's sake, but reassuring, honest, fierce, and beautifully real, she lost it. Burst into tears—the one thing worse than vomiting, in her estimation.

She allowed herself to be led into Annabeth's home. She was still crying, and suddenly, she was hyperventilating.

"Oh christ." With firm but gentle hands, Annabeth guided Trinity to the couch, careful to seat her on the end that was not broken. "Try to slow down your breathing. You're okay. You're okay, you're safe. When you're ready, tell me. But _stay calm, _you're safe here." Annabeth wasn't sure she herself believed this, herself, but no need to tell that to the blonde having an episode on her couch. "It's okay. I promise, it's okay. We'll get through this."

She sat on the arm rest of the sofa, slowly stroking Trinity's back and cooing nonsensical and possibly untrue nonsense. All the while, the feral, sharp instincts that Annabeth had nurtured throughout her life were now running in overdrive. What had Trinity been thinking? What danger had she possibly put them in?

It was clear that no information would be immediately forthcoming, and so, with infinite patience, Annabeth continued to comfort Trinity. Eventually, her unannounced visitor begin to calm down and resume the visage of the collected, glamorous woman Annabeth remembered. What on earth had brought her here? What had happened? She glanced around at her orderly, quiet home and had a very brief moment to wonder what had happened to it, just before another rapping knock resounded throughout the room.

The two women froze, each equally terrified. Trinity had just stopped hyperventilating, and Annabeth had just stopped wondering if she had any brown bags, and now this. Annabeth reached for the baseball bat with one hand while silently _sshhing _Trinity with the other. Stealthily she crept across the room, her heart pounding in her ears. She was dimly aware of Trinity behind her, beginning to look for the nearest escape route.

Annabeth stood on tiptoe and stole a look at the peephole.

No one was there.

Weary realization dawned upon Annabeth. She turned from the door to face Trinity, who had, despite her well-advised fear, begun to move closer to the door. "Look," she sighed. "I wouldn't freak out too much if I were you-" she peered over Trinity's shoulder. "Oh. Hello."

Trinity turned around, confused—and promptly yelped in fright as she took in the dark, hulking figure of the Batman waiting silently behind her.

"Precisely," Annabeth agreed, and promptly plopped herself down on the floor, amidst her paperwork. "I'm guessing you both have a very good reason for popping in tonight. Generally, people call first. You should give it a try."

Trinity looked as though she were about to retort, but any comments that were rising to her tongue were promptly cut off as she burst into tears again.

"Oh, lord. Again?" Annabeth didn't know what to make of the situation, so went for the old stand-by of inappropriate, deadpan levity. She turned to the Batman and said, almost conversationally, "I'd try to catch you up, but that's pretty much what you missed out on for the first five minutes." She turned her attention back to Trinity, and when she began to speak, her voice carried none of her previous exasperation. "Trin?"

"_Don't call me that." _Trinity managed to stop crying for a moment and glared out at Annabeth through tear-ravaged eyes, "_They _call me that. That's not my name."

"Fair enough," Annabeth agreed. "Trinity, I'm guessing you're here because something happened?"

"Yes." Trinity took a deep, gasping breath. "I've got more information about the Arrows. Important stuff."

The Batman shifted his stance, and Annabeth knew his body language well enough to know that he was interested. "Go on," he ordered her, and ignored the dark look Annabeth gave him.

"There's a place in the Narrows—down near the area they call Wharfside. I think there's actually a whole block of slum tenements, they all look abandoned..." Trinity closed her eyes and felt the tears trickle silently from beneath her lids. "Anyway, that's where they're going to be taking the girls Donzetti's bringing in. They've got some goons running the stash house."

"What do you mean 'running'?" Annabeth demanded. "They're already in business?"

"Close to it. They nabbed some girls, some illegals that wouldn't be missed. They're..." Trinity paused , searching for the right words, "breaking them in. You know what that means."

Both Annabeth and the Batman nodded. They were well-versed in the ambiguous language of evil that seemed to be specially created by and for Gotham.

"These are girls, and I mean _girls. _I think they need medical attention; they're in horrible living conditions. I'm sure they're torturing them, beating them, all in the name of keeping them in line." Trinity forced herself to recall the details; she knew that anything less would be an unholy denial of the evil she had witnessed. "And they're just the beginning. The Arrows will be bringing in dozens, maybe hundreds of girls soon—the profits will be astronomical compared to your garden-variety Gotham prostitute. And they want _me _to help break and train them."

Annabeth was disgusted, but the Batman, unsurprisingly, maintained his impassive air. When he spoke, there was no indication that he was moved by any of this. "How many guards were there?"

Trinity struggled to remember. "I saw three, I think."

"How many girls?"

"At least six—there was at least one more, but it sounded as though they got rid of her."

"Where exactly in Wharfside was it?"

"I don't know!" Trinity's lip curled in momentary disgust. "Do I really look like the type to know the streets and alleys of the Narrows?"

"_Think."_ The Batman's voice was commanding, almost harsh.

"I don't know!" Trinity was beginning to crack under his rapid-fire questions. "I know it was Wharfside, and it was right by the water. God, it stank. A whole block of abandoned tenement buildings, they all looked the same...but in the dark, it's hard to tell."

"You need to tell me all you remember," the Batman told her, and this time, there was no mistaking the harshness in his voice. "If you're going back in there, we need a plan, and we need all the information you have."

All hell broke loose as he stated this. Annabeth instantly turned to him and began hotly protesting this; he couldn't mean to send her back into that mess; it was too dangerous; it was soul-destroying. With each protest, her voice grew higher and higher. "Are you even_human?" _she concluded. "Who the hell are you to play us like goddamned chess pieces? Can't you see Trinity's losing it?"

"I can see she's losing it," was the Batman's concession. "Her dinner, anyway."

Annabeth turned and saw that Trinity was no longer in the room; as Annabeth had been railing at the Batman, nausea had once again overtaken Trinity and compelled her to dash off in search of a bathroom. Judging by the sounds of gagging and choked sobs echoing down the hall, she had found it.

Sighing, Annabeth heaved herself off the floor and headed down the hall. The door to her bathroom was open a crack, and so Annabeth slowly, gently pushed it inwards. Just as the Batman had surmised—damn him—Trinity was in the throes of nausea, her beautiful blonde tresses swooping down over her face in a golden cascade. Without thinking, Annabeth knelt down beside her and gently pulled her hair back.

"Thank you," Trinity managed to choke.

Annabeth smiled sadly. "It's one of the most comforting things a person can do. And fortunately, I just cleaned my bathroom tonight, so you're puking in a clean toilet."

Trinity laughed, a strangled, feeble sound in the small bathroom.

"Well, it's true. How many times have you knelt in front of the toilet and realized, god, I'm brought so low I'm shoving my face into a place that hasn't been cleaned in god only knows how long, and _I don't even care." _Annabeth gently stroked Trinity's head as she said this.

"He's right, you know." Trinity jerked her heads towards the direction of the living room. "Your Batman friend. I need to keep doing this."

Annabeth nodded reluctantly. "I hate it when he's right, but...he's right. We'll make a plan, though, just as soon as you're ready."

"Give me a few minutes?"

"Take all the time you need." Annabeth rose back to her feet. "I'll just entertain our guest. Think he'll take some tea?"

It was a feeble attempt at a joke, whistling bravely in the dark, but Trinity appreciated it for that reason. As she listened to Annabeth exit the bathroom, she realized that the courage Annabeth exuded may have been false bravado, but it was catching.

Wearily, Annabeth made her way back to the living room, where the Batman still waited. She looked at him, tried to look into his eyes, as much as the cowl and the black paint allowed. "She'll be out in a minute. You're right, we know it...but we don't have to like it."

He nodded silently.

Annabeth plunked herself down, yet again, on the floor, and mourned the loss of her peaceful evening. She began gathering up her paperwork, putting it into neat piles. "But soon enough you might have to find someone else to play with and be a bureaucratic gopher."

The Batman went very still. "Why?"

"I might be moving soon." Annabeth said this sadly, but with a certain serenity.

"Moving?" The Batman came closer. "How far?"

"Far. Not sure where yet, but far from Gotham. After all, it's not the best place to raise a family, is it?" she pointed out rhetorically.

Long ago the Batman had trained himself to detach himself from all personal matters whenever he was in his costume. Up until now, he had done this successfully, but there was always a first time. Now, hearing Annabeth's almost-but-not-quite casual tone, he knew that that time had come, and his blood ran cold. "A family?"

"Yup." Annabeth turned her attention away from her papers and met his gaze directly, not aware of the shock her words were causing. "I'm pregnant. Just found out today, from my doctor who, as it turns out, knows less about fickle reproductive systems than anyone could have guessed. 'Improbabilities are still possibilities,' she says. Pompous fool. Never thought I'd say that about a woman."

The Batman struggled to focus, struggled to find some words, any words, with which to respond. The ones he came up with were woefully, even comically inadequate. "So...you're leaving?"

"Time to get the hell outta Dodge, I think." She smiled, and again he saw the sad serenity that seemed to hang about her like an aura. "I've given it my best, and I'm not going to let this city take anything else from me. Interesting—you're the first person I've even told about the baby. You should feel honored. When was the last time anyone shared news like this with you?"

Any opportunity he has to respond to this was cut off as Trinity came back into the living room, pale but with her head held high and her eyes glowing dangerously. "I'm back," she announced unnecessarily. "Now—let's figure out what we're going to do. A raid? Can you get them out of there?"

Incredibly, the Batman managed to corral his chaotic thoughts and focus, however briefly, on the matter at hand. "A raid, yes. But not now, not yet. We need to wait for Donzetti to come back with the rest."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Trinity didn't like thinking of the nameless girls whose frightened faces now haunted her. "Those girls looked like they were in rough shape, and god only knows what the ones coming in with Donzetti will be like."

"We need you to keep an eye on the situation. Keep an eye on the girls—the ones that are there and the ones coming in. When Donzetti gets in, we need to find out exactly how many there are, and where everyone is stashed."

"And then what?"

Both the Batman and Trinity turned to Annabeth, who was looking pretty unhappy. "Then what?" she repeated. "You and Gordon and his team raid the stash house, arrest Donzetti and le Blanc and any Arrows you can lay your hands on, hurrah hurrah, but what's going to happen to the girls? You guys think that one through yet?"

Trinity looked chastened; the Batman—well, it was impossible to tell.

"Let me enlighten you guys. What's going to happen is that Gordon and his men are going to unearth several dozen undocumented immigrants, because you can be damned sure these girls don't have real papers. The Feds will be involved, of course, which means INS will be involved. These girls—who are _victims—_will most likely be arrested and detained for lack of documentation. They're going to be treated as criminals—prostitutes at best, illegals to be deported at worst, they're not going to have the counseling that they need, and you can be damned sure that they'll be deported, sooner rather than later if le Blanc manages to bribe the right people. And then, guess what happens—they're right back to where they started, except that the Eastern European thugs that got them into this mess will be gunning for them and making sure that they don't blab to anyone over there once their delectable European asses get hauled back to whatever godforsaken former Communist bloc from whence they came."

The Batman and Trinity stared at Annabeth.

"What? You think this is the first time I've gotten involved with a stash house raid like this?" Annabeth demanded.

"No, I just think that you're a pedantic prig sometimes," Trinity retorted. She glanced over at the Batman. "She always like this?"

"Usually. Doesn't mean she's wrong though."

"This needs to be handled carefully," Annabeth continued, ignoring Trinity's not unreasonable observation. "We need to coordinate with Gordon and about a million other government agencies. These girls are going to need expedited temporary visas, protection, medical care, legal help. We can't let them be victimized by bureaucratic callousness. Can you help me get Gordon on our side?" she asked the Batman.

"Shouldn't be too hard. He's not always by the books."

Annabeth nodded. "Good. Contact him as soon as you can; it sounds like we've got a pretty small window of time to work with. You think Donzetti's due back by the middle of the month? I'll arrange a meeting with him by the end of the week. Trinity—you're going to keep us informed, yes?"

Trinity nodded silently, grudgingly impressed with Annabeth's ability to take the lead and think out a reasonable strategy. She wasn't the only one; the Batman, too, was marveling at her self-possession and grasp of the situation...particularly under the circumstances.

_The circumstances. _"I'm pregnant," Annabeth had said, and that simple statement had thrown the Batman's entire, carefully-ordered world off its axis. Why wasn't she reeling? He was reeling—at least internally. It took every ounce of effort to focus on what was happening and what was being said. He jerked his head, just a little, to bring himself back to the present situation. _Listen. Pay attention. _Still, a strange adrenaline was pounding in his ears.

Annabeth was looking back and forth to these two different, and somewhat unwelcome people, who were cluttering up her living room, her life, and possibly her future. She just wanted to get on with her plans and her evening. "This needs to be coordinated just right—remember who the victims are here." She glanced sharply at Trinity. "Did anyone follow you? Other than him?" She jerked her head to the Batman.

"If someone did, I suppose we'll find out when my battered remains make tomorrow's news, won't we?" Trinity gave a twisted smile. "How'd you know I was here, anyway?" she asked the Batman.

"I was watching Annabeth's home," he answered simply. It was the truth. He had stayed away as long as he could, but loneliness, or morbid curiosity, or an addiction to angst, or perhaps all three, had driven him to Bordertown, to Annabeth's home. That was where he had seen been lurking for a good portion of the evening when he had seen Trinity's frantic entrance into Annabeth's building.

"That's creepy." Trinity remarked.

"Yup." Annabeth agreed. "The Orkin man doesn't cover this kind of pest. Now," she glanced at the Batman, and then at Trinity. "It's late, very late, and I'm tired. Make sure Trinity gets home alright," she said to the Batman. "She's the key now."

Trinity shook her head. "I'll be fine—I got here fine."

"No." Annabeth rejected this. "This is not open to discussion. You need to get home safe and _you_-" she turned to the Batman "-need to make it happen."

The Batman reluctantly was forced to agree with her, and even as Trinity left through the front door and he left out a window—without having a chance to pursue Annabeth's revelation—he had to admit to himself that Annabeth was going to make a very good mother. She certainly had the bossiness down.

_God, what a mess._

Back to the Palisades. Back to the Manor. Back to the Batcave. Back to Alfred.

The long drive home had done nothing to assist the Batman in ironing out his thoughts. For the first time since Rachel's death, he was lost—completely at sea. He had no idea how to proceed. But then, when Rachel had been killed, it was death which had immobilized him. Now it was life. And it wasn't any easier.

Predictably, despite the ungodly hour, Alfred was patiently waiting for him. As the Batman emerged from the Tumbler, he could not help but to notice the lines in Alfred's face, deep lines scored from years—too many of them—of anxiety and responsibilities from which any other man would have long ago fled. What kept Alfred there? What reward, what enticement could there possibly be for this strange life he had chosen for himself?

And here the Batman was, about to complicate it more.

"I have herbal tea waiting for you, sir. Chamomile" Alfred said this almost indifferently. It was something of a routine, particularly after a certain time of night. He was always trying to get his employer to consume less caffeine. He watched as the Batman unfastened the cape and began to pull off his mask and cowl, revealing Bruce's face, pale and strained. "Rough night?"

"You could say that." Bruce headed over to his work table, but as soon as he reached it, he turned around and paced in a half-circle. He glanced over at Alfred once, and then walked back to the work table, placed both of his hands upon it, and bowed his head.

Patiently, Alfred waited.

After a moment, Bruce unfastened his utility belt and carefully placed it on the table. Only then did he turn and meet Alfred's querying gaze. "Annabeth's pregnant."

At first, Alfred did nothing—there was absolutely no reaction from him. And then, after a moment, he began to examine the utility belt Bruce had so recently placed upon the table. In confusion, Bruce watched as Alfred carefully ran his hands over the material, checking each piece of equipment. Each item—the grappling hooks, the lock-picking tools, the plastic explosives, the forensic kit, and strangely, most thoroughly, the empty compartments—received his scrupulous attention.

"Alfred?" Bruce prompted. "What are you doing?"

Alfred turned to Bruce and held the utility belt aloft. Bruce saw that his butler's face was white—with what? Rage? Disappointment? Disgust? When he spoke, his voice dripped anger, with more than a little disappointment thrown in.

"This belt, Master Wayne..." Alfred shook it for emphasis, "this belt _alone _cost forty thousand dollars to produce...the equipment, a total of sixty-five thousand...and R&D on it came to just over one hundred thousand. Do you know how much that equals?"

"Over two hundred and five," Bruce answered promptly.

"Two hundred and five thousand," Alfred agreed, his long-dormant Cockney accent becoming more pronounced as his voice grew louder. "Two hundred and five thousand for this utility belt, which is loaded with every bell and whistle we can think of and room for plenty more. So can you explain to me why, sir, you saw fit to invest in a two-hundred-thousand dollar boy scout kit, and you couldn't have added a bloomin' condom to it?"


	38. Chapter 38

Christmas in Gotham! Christmas in the city!

Gotham's celebration of this pagan holiday had no equals—at least as far as Gothamites were concerned. By the day after Thanksgiving, the majority of the city was prepared for the holiday, much as though it was an army battalion kitted for battle. The stores were stocked and the good citizens of the city were prepared to do their patriotic duty and shop until their credit card statements bled red ink.

_The Nutcracker_ was scheduled for its sixtieth annual performance; the Christmas charity events were planned; the ice skating rinks were in full swing; the Salvation Army volunteers were poised with their mournful bells and their gently-applied guilt. The bakeries and caterers were already taking their orders from time-poor, money-rich families who wanted to impress with lavish dinners and extravagant parties. The carolers were gearing up, harmonizing, and trying to find new ways to outdo the previous year's performance.

And everywhere, everywhere, were decorations. The sidewalks and buildings were bedecked and bedazzling; the Solomon Center Christmas tree was a record-breaking 98-foot-high Norway Spruce, and a "green" one at that-not only in its LED lights, but the tree itself was "green". In typical Gotham fashion, no one questioned this rather strange claim but merely boasted of itss "greenness." The stores designed tantalizing displays of their most brilliant, luxurious merchandise; fairy lights were strung everywhere, on every street corner. In the more elegant Gotham residences, interior designers were consulted and color-coordinated decorations duly purchased and installed (never by the families). In the more humble households, mothers and fathers and children consulted and put up the general hodgepodge of elegant, new ornaments, old and hideous family heirlooms, and equally hideous but even more beloved handmade decorations made by the enterprising children in school.

It seemed as though every building, from the exalted Wayne Towers to the more humble Safe Haven, was doing its bit to put a brave face on what everyone knew—but no one admitted—was a potentially bleak holiday. The bank failures and unemployment lines of the autumn brought back to many the unhappy memories of the Depression of more than twenty years ago. The city's struggles were a reflection of the country's at large, but being in good company was not nearly enough of a comfort. And so everyone did what they could to make it a happy Christmas.

At Wayne Tower, an unexpectedly tense board meeting resulted with a rather grudging unanimous vote to light up the trademark "WT" with alternating red and green lights. During the height of the objections, Bruce briefly considered hurling plastic explosives at the chief opponent, whose main objection appeared not to be regarding expenses or based on religious objections, but rather the possibility that it would bring down the "classy" facade for which they strove.

Fortunately, cooler heads—and Lucius—prevailed before Bruce could seriously entertain forceful intervention.

In the Naval Tricorner Yards, Gordon and his eldest daughter conspired to make Christmas as enticing and special as ever for the younger Gordon offspring. Gordon baked—with predictably awful results—and one snowy night Barbara Jr. hauled home a particularly beautiful and fragrant Christmas tree. They both helped Jimmy and Hannah as they laboriously composed letters to Santa, they read Christmas stories, and they succeeded, more or less, in distracting the children from pondering their first Christmas without their mother. For Jim Gordon's wife was still closeted away in rehab, and not expected home any time in the near future.

In the Narrows, Maggie did the same thing she did every year: tiredly, she strung up a few lights and set out red and green dishes of chocolates and nuts. She had seen many Christmases, and would see many more; nothing special about it. The only reason she paid any notice to it at all was because, between Christmas and New Year's, her clientele—and therefore, cash intake—more than doubled. Christmas was great for misery, and misery was great for profits.

Wharfside was another story. In Little Mexico, the devout Catholics took time to prepare for the holiday, but elsewhere, no one could be bothered. Particularly not the goons safeguarding the Arrow's stash house, and especially not the increasingly frightened, malnourished young girls who had been charged to their tender care. Closeted as the girls were in their darkened room, they were scarcely aware of night changing into day, and Christmas was but a distant memory, and not something which existed in their current world of fear and pain.

That was one of the few, very few exceptions in Gotham. It was a city filled with worried, calloused, downtrodden people, but christ they knew how to party. What was Christmas but a license to party all month long? To celebrate, drink, eat, dance, and spend to excess, to enjoy one's self and to prove that, crime and economy and budget cuts and layoffs be damned, they would remember they were _alive._

Even Trinity did her part to join in the seasonal cheer. Late one evening, in a wine-induced fervor of spending, she purchased a few hundred dollars worth of decorations and ornaments—inexplicably, in a Florida theme, complete with flamingos, palm trees, and speedo-clad santas—and then, two days later, watched grimly as the delivery men trooped in, one after the other, laden with the boxes.

Trinity believed in living with her mistakes. So she purchased a tree, unpacked the ornaments—and vowed to hide the credit cards the next time she chose to drink at home.

And of course, Safe Haven went on its own little Merry Christmas way, cobbled together by its inhabitants and employees, and unsurprisingly, became the recipient of a fair amount of bright, shiny Christmas cheer. And not surprisingly, its source was Bruce Wayne.

In the days following Annabeth's disturbing news—and Alfred's less than thrilled reaction to it—Bruce had spent a great deal of time thinking about how best to proceed with the situation. Alfred joined in, too, once he overcame his initial shock and disappointment, and proved to be his usual comforting, reliable sounding board self. He hustled Bruce up to the Manor and into the kitchen, where together the two men discussed the options as Alfred prepared breakfast.

"The problem is that you won't man up and tell her about your other identity," Alfred pointed out, "and you can't tell her that you know without revealing _how _you know."

"But I can't _not_ do anything, either," Bruce responded miserably. "It's not right, on any number of levels. It's mine..._ours," _he corrected himself, almost anticipating Annabeth's anti-patriarchal retort, "and I've got a responsibility to do what's right...whatever that is."

Alfred had looked at Bruce expectantly, but Bruce did not extrapolate on what he thought "right" was...particularly when he did not yet know. Give money every month? Be a father? Head for the hills?

"She wouldn't..." Alfred paused, searching for the least distasteful phrasing. "She wouldn't try to...ahhh...seek a medical remedy, would she?"

Bruce took a moment to think before he responded. "I don't think so. She wanted a child, I know, but didn't think it was possible...not after what she went through in college. I don't think she'd throw away a chance like this."

"If the press gets hold of this, it will be a fiasco," Alfred mused. He poured cup of tea for Bruce and passed it to him. "I can't imagine what would happen."

"That's the least of my problems," Bruce sighed.

"It shouldn't be!" Alfred snapped. "The press would be crawling all over the Manor, the businesses, to say nothing of Safe Haven and Annabeth. And how do you think all that extra scrutiny will help along your nocturnal activities?"

"Sounds like you actually _can _imagine what would happen." Bruce snapped back. Tiredly, he lifted the cup of coffee and inhaled its fragrant, eye-opening steam. "It's not exactly something for which I have a contingency plan."

"Perhaps fortunately. I'd be worried if this was a scenario you had concocted a while ago." Alfred fell silent for a while as he contemplated the present predicament and the various options open to them. Finally, he was forced to admit that he had no brilliant ideas. "You've really backed yourself into a corner with this one, Master Wayne. The only thing that's certain is that this...baby...is one secret that won't stay that way."

Bruce poked at his breakfast. And then, more because he was grasping at straws, he said, "Well...just because she hasn't told me yet doesn't mean she's not going to, right? Maybe I should just give her the opportunity."

"This is true, sir. And you've not exactly been accessible lately. Perhaps it's time to make an appearance at Safe Haven?"

"I think it's time," Bruce agreed. And even if it wasn't, he still needed to be there, try to drag the truth out of Annabeth...because the alternative, admitting that he already knew, and then allowing her to realize _how, _was clearly no alternative at all. But still...at the end of the day...he still had to figure out what to do.

They certainly hadn't taught him to prepare for _this _scenario during his time with the League of Shadows.

"It's ruined." Annabeth was utterly disconsolate.

"Maybe you can fix it?" Maya was trying to be optimistic.

"What's the point? It'll just need fixing again. And again. It's worthless. Honestly, he was never that attractive to begin with."

"Well, if you're going to be like that, then clearly there won't be _anything _for you this Christmas. No wonder he decided to quit."

Donna had happened upon the two younger women as Maya made this last observation. "What's up? Dissecting Annabeth's love life?"

"Hardly." Annabeth rolled her eyes at her boss. "The glowing treetop Santa broke _again. _I think this time for good."

The three women gazed at the Santa in question. It was plugged into the wall, but its red suit—now faded to an unsightly burnt-orange—stayed resolutely dark. Every now and then, the rotund Santa face flickered, but each time it did, the outlet sizzled ominously.

"Well," Donna sighed. "I bought the damned thing at a rummage sale for a dollar—I'm amazed it lasted this long. Poor old thing had already seen better days."

"Why'd you get it, anyway?" Maya wrinkled her nose. "He's _hideous."_

Donna and Annabeth glanced at each other, and Annabeth's countenance took on a decidedly sheepish expression. Smirking, Donna told Maya, "When Annabeth came on board, she insisted we needed to be as nondenominational and undivisive with our Christmas decorations as possible. And so we got a bunch of generic, inoffensive ornaments. This little guy was the result."

"I don't know," Maya was unconvinced. "I'm pretty offended by him."

Annabeth smiled in spite of herself. "Well, there was certainly nothing divisive about this little guy...he united everyone in their loathing of him. It's tradition to make fun of him..._was, _anyway. No more, I guess." She gave the Santa a little kick, whereupon he burnt out completely.

The box from which the Santa had been unearthed contained several other Christmas decorations, all purchased long ago from dubious thrift shops and rummage sales. There were several more boxes still waiting to be sorted through, and as the fearless leader, Donna took it upon herself to kneel dwn and begin scrounging. "That Santa's probably a harbinger of doom for the rest of this crap. Looks like we'll have to ferret some money out of the general fund for some new stuff."

"Just about time, I think," Maya remarked, pulling out a headless elf. "I think the Avon ladies sold these...back when I was a kid."

Slowly, they began to work their way through the boxes, occasionally remarking upon how so many things could fall apart in the course of one year. By the time they reached the end of the task, there was a small pile of functional and not-hideous decorations, and a much, much larger pile of items which had been consigned to the rubbish heap.

Donna sighed. "Time to hump all this stuff down to the trash. Annabeth, why don't you and Maya do that while I start trying to conjure up some money for decorations?"

"Shouldn't be too difficult."

The three women turned around to the male voice which had unexpectedly chimed into the conversation. To no one's surprise but Annabeth's, Bruce Wayne had decided to pay a visit.

"Bruce!" Maya recovered first, and actually hurried over to give him a hug. "We haven't seen you in forever! I was beginning to get worried—I wanted to send you an invitation to my wedding, but I wasn't sure where to send it."

At the utterance of the word "wedding," Annabeth jerked around and began to be quite absorbed in digging around the cartons of decrepit ornaments. Bruce actually looked a little panicked, too; neither of their reactions were lost on Donna, who remained tactfully silent.

"Well, how about we meet later about it?" Bruce asked after a moment. He glanced over at Annabeth, who pointedly ignored him.

"Sounds good." Maya was a refreshingly happy person, and also perhaps a little self-absorbed, so she was quite oblivious to the misery in the room. "Why don't I go ahead and take this junk out, Donna, and you and Annabeth can meet with Bruce and get him caught up?" Happiness may have made her self-absorbed, but it made her generous, too. Unfortunately for Annabeth.

"Lovely idea," Donna smiled. "Annabeth, why don't you go ahead and gather your notes, and we'll all meet in ten minutes."

"Wonderful," Annabeth muttered. And then realized that the only one beside herself left in the room was Bruce, looking enigmatically at her.

In the few weeks which had lapsed between now and when they had last spoken and seen each other, Annabeth had worked diligently at banishing Bruce from her heart and mind. She had worked many late nights, she had spent time with Janey and Jason, she had even indulged in hobby-like things like cooking and recreational reading and exercising. She had cleaned her condo until it shone; she had begun the behemoth task of cleaning and organizing her office; she had worked herself to physical and intellectual exhaustion and come home many nights to collapse into her bed and fall asleep before she had the energy to think on melancholy matters.

In fact, her level of exhaustion was unusually high, even with her energy-sapping lifestyle. She hadn't questioned it at first. It wasn't until Thanksgiving dinner, when Stacy had made the comment about being on the rag, that Annabeth had realized, horrified, her period was almost ten days late. A hastily-procured home pregnancy test confirmed Annabeth's most unlikely suspicious: she was pregnant. An equally-hastily arranged doctor's appointment merely served to further underscore this strange fact.

"Most unlikely," the blithering wench of a doctor had remarked. "But improbabilities are still possibilities. Still, I'm surprised...we'll need to keep a close eye on you. There's plenty of room for complications. I don't like the look of your blood pressure, and you're a little older, and given your history-" the doctor had cut herself short. "That was foolish of me. I should have asked your plans—to keep or not to keep?"

Keep, of course. It was the one simple decision in all of this clusterfuck her life had unexpectedly become. It was everything else that was going to be harder. And now, seeing Bruce Wayne, the goddamned father of her unborn child, hovering around and casting brooding looks at her just made life even more difficult. She had not yet figured out how to broach the subject with him, and to complicate matters, his presence suddenly brought back some rather unhappy knowledge Annabeth had done her best to keep at bay: she was still in love with the damned man.

Silently she cursed herself, cursed her sweating palms, the leaden feeling in her stomach, the anxiety that was making her heart clench. Dammit all.

"How are you doing?" Bruce asked quietly.

"Fine," she answered, the curtness in her tone taking even herself by surprise. She began to head back to her office. "I'd ask about you, but according to the tabloids, you're doing just fine." Even as thr words were coming out of her mouth,she found herself momentarily stunned, and then embarrassed, by her own waspishness. _Now where the hell had that come from?_ A remark like that only showed her hand—showed how bothered and e even jealous and piqued she was. Time to make a quick escape. She brushed past him, studiously avoiding his eyes. "Excuse me."

Bruce watched as she stalked down the hallway. It didn't take a genius to be able to tell that she wasn't going to make things easy for him, and she wouldn't be taking him into her confidence anytime soon...but then, when had anything in his life ever been easy?

The fact that he was most usually the source of his own difficulties was neither here nor there, of course.

The meeting in Donna's office was no less tense or awkward than their initial greeting had been. Annabeth remained resolutely, stonily silent for the majority of it, and Bruce made every effort to avoid looking over at her. Patiently, Donna took them through the key points of the meeting, and with commendable forbearance, tried to ignore the Atmosphere. This was rather difficult, as they were attempting to make the final preparations for the Take Back the Night rally, and there were still many little details to which they had to attend. They went through the checklist that they had prepared several weeks prior, discussing the various items which still needed their attention. Annabeth simply took notes.

At one point, Bruce finally caved. "It's coming together pretty easily, don't you think?" he asked Annabeth. "Particularly given Mayor Garcia's initial opposition."

"Mmm." Annabeth didn't look up from her notes.

A strained silence fell over the group. Bruce shot Donna a pleading look, Donna glared at Annabeth, and Annabeth blithely ignored them both. She had reached an almost zen-like state of supreme indifference. Each day she became further and further removed, emotionally, from Gotham, from Safe Haven, and therefore, from Donna's expectations and pressures. Annabeth was not long for the world of Gotham.

Finally Donna spoke, to alleviate the tension and to distract from what she saw as Annabeth's appalling rudeness. "Once the mayor was neutralized and we got Gordon in our corner, it was smooth sailing," she agreed. "Useful to know how easy things are when municipal bureaucracy isn't getting in your way."

"Speaking of Gordon," Annabeth piped up now as though it was an entirely normal conversation, "I've got an appointment with him over at MCU in less than an hour, and I know I don't want to be late." She started to rise, but Bruce's voice gave her pause.

"That's too bad—I was hoping I could take you and Donna to lunch." He hadn't been, but he was surprised to realize how much he wanted to prolong contact with Annabeth.

"Nope." Annabeth began to gather up her things.

"Can't you reschedule?" Donna was looking increasingly peeved. "I don't think I need to remind you that your Safe Haven duties come first."

"I don't think I need to remind you," Annabeth countered in a sickly-sweet voice, "That collaborating with the police _is _one of my Safe Haven duties."

Bruce had dropped any studied disinterest by this point ans was avidly observing the tense exchange between the two strong women. It was a strange role-reversal, to be sure: Annabeth appeared supremely unruffled, and even serene, while Donna grew pale with rage and her mouth tightened with annoyance. Clearly, her favored protégé had gone rogue, and it was not at all to Donna's liking.

And just like that, Annabeth was gone, leaving Bruce and Donna behind in a rather surprised silence. Bruce actually gave Donna the sympathetic look she usually reserved for him. "Feisty."

"I don't know what's gotten into her!" Donna exploded. "Bruce, please accept my apologies. There's no way I can even try to make nice and be diplomatic; you're completely within your rights to tell us to fuck off. God knows _I'd_ take myself to far more grateful recipients-"

"Don't worry about it," Bruce said smoothly. "I'm not going to make anyone here suffer because of a fit of pique. Annabeth..." Here words failed him. "Well, anyway, the Wayne Foundation and I are completely behind you. I believe in what you're doing here."

"Tormenting billionaires?"

"Well, maybe _most _of what you're doing here," Bruce amended. "But who knows? The world would probably be a better place with more uppity women, anyway. Now—how do you propose we turn Safe Haven into a winter wonderland?"

It was perhaps no coincidence that, other than the Narrows, the one other place in Gotham that lacked the Christmas spirit was the one place which was dedicated to spending an inordinate amount of time fighting crime within the Narrows: Gotham City PD's Major Crimes Unit.

In its overcrowded, underfunded quarters, there simply was no room for fripperies like Christmas trees or gifts. And there certainly wasn't _time, _either, to indulge in such nonsense.

Annabeth took note of this; relished it, in fact, with misanthropic satisfaction, as she waited in the tiny lobby of the MCU. As a rule, she had no love lost for cops, but the complete indifference these hardbitten cops showed to the holiday was perversely pleasing to her.

"Annabeth?"

She snapped out of her strangely serene state of scrooginess to see a woman standing in front of her, gazing down, seemingly amused by her cross expression. Detective Montoya, she seemed to recall, was her name. Gordon's right-hand man, as it were.

"The Commissioner's ready to see you now. I'll take you to him."

Montoya held open the door which led through the Bullpen, the cramped, communal area where the majority of MCU's hardbitten investigators worked. Annabeth trailed after Montoya, gazing around at the various detectives as they moved around, occasionally hovering over a desk or making a beeline for a file cabinet here, a Xerox machine there, or the coffee pots, which seemed to be everywhere.

It was a far cry from what Annabeth remembered—these hardworking detectives were nothing like the crass, cruel Flass who had tormented Annabeth when she had come seeking justice. Certainly, some of these detectives she saw now were undoubtedly corrupt, but many more were probably Gordon's men and women, loyal and devoted to the concept of a better Gotham.

At least, she hoped they were.

"Sorry you had to wait a few minutes," Montoya said. "Things are a little crazier than normal."

"What's normal for Gotham, anyway?" Annabeth smiled. "Anything wrong?"

Montoya stopped so abruptly Annabeth actually ran into her. The detective's face was troubled.

"Yeah, actually, something _is _wrong." Montoya glanced around at the detectives. Satisfied that they were all too absorbed in their own tasks to pay attention to the women, she started speaking in low, hurried tones. "Remember when the Joker was raising hell?"

"Of course."

"One of the dirty cops, Anna Ramirez, got put away for a good long while for the part she played in all of that." Montoya frowned at the memory of her. "Well, looks like Ramirez's time cooling her heels in state prison is finally starting to drive her fucking nuts. She just did an exclusive interview with the _Gotham Gazette—_coming out this coming Saturday—on how Harvey Dent was really not the white knight everyone made him out to be. She's going to sing like a canary and expose him...and therefore, the little story that the Batman and Gordon cooked up to save his reputation."

"'Little story'?" Annabeth echoed.

"What, you didn't know? The Boss and his pal decided that Dent would have a better impact on Gotham than anyone else, so they covered up his...errors. All good and well in theory. But now that Ramirez is talking, Gordon's going to look incompetent at best and dishonest at worst."

"I'd figured there was more to the story than we were getting," Annabeth shrugged. "But this is good—the Batman's name will be cleared, right?"

Montoya rolled her eyes. "Great. Another fan. Yes, the Batman's name will be cleared, but at what cost? And even then, it's not like Hollywood's going to come around, give him a hug, and make a film out of him. There's a hell of a lot of people in this city that thought the Batman was bad news from the get-go. Damned bitch Ramirez just made things a _hell _of a lot harder for us. So we're in the middle of doing damage control before it hits the papers."

Just then, a lanky woman streaked across the room, catching Annabeth's attention and effectively stifling any response she was cooking up for Montoya. Annabeth watched as the woman made a beeline for the nearest coffee pot and poured the steaming black liquid into a styrofoam cup and downing it immediately. Only after she got her fix did she take a look around.

Right away, Annabeth knew who she was. With her brilliant, coppery-red hair, her disconcertingly level gaze, her various body piercings, and her slightly flamboyant manner, Annabeth knew she was beholding the legendary Barbara Gordon, Jr.

And Barbara was beholding her, too. She gave Annabeth an appraising look and immediately sauntered over to her. "Hello there," she said. "Detective, who's this civilian?"

"Out of bounds," was the immediate, crushing reply. "And watch who you're calling a civilian, cheeky. You're a _graduate __student. _. This is Annabeth, and she's here to see your dad."

Barbara grinned. "Then we already have something in common. I'll take her in to see him, Detective...I was just swinging by to drop off some paperwork." She gave Annabeth a roguish wink, and was quickly on her way again, leaving Montoya looking resigned and Annabeth amused.

"Go on, follow her," Montoya said. "She's a force of nature, and it's just easier to roll along with her. Better hurry up, though, or you'll get lost."

So Annabeth followed Barbara—actually, followed the sound of her voice, strident and raucous, as she called out greetings to various colleagues of her father. By the time Annabeth caught up to her, Barbara was knocking on a door, presumably leading into one of the few private offices in MCU. Seeing Annabeth's surprised expression, Barbara smirked. "One of the few perks of being Commissioner." As the door swung inward, revealing a rather drawn-looking Jim Gordon, and a very cluttered, messy office, Barbara added, "And a dubious perk, at best."

Jim Gordon knew better than to question his daughter about the nature of her remarks. He also did not seem surprised to see Annabeth and Barbara turning up together at his office—but then, Annabeth assumed, being the father of Barbara probably inured Gordon to a great many of life's quirks and surprises. No wonder he kept company with the Batman.

"Hi, Pops." Barbara leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Just wanted to drop off the paperwork for Mom's health insurance—I drove out there this morning to pick up the signed forms. I can see you're busy, and as much as I'd love to stick around—" here she smiled at Annabeth again, "I've got to get back. Doing a research symposium this afternoon that I still have to do for."

Without giving Gordon a chance to respond, she spun around, gave them an absent wave, and disappeared back into the melee of the MCU.

"You look shell-shocked," Gordon remarked. "It's alright, Barbara does that to everyone the first time she meets them. She drives me crazy, but she's putting a big part of her life on hold to help her family. Couldn't ask for a better girl."

"I'd definitely want her in my corner," Annabeth agreed. "Good morning, Commissioner."

"Ah, yes. Business. Come in." Gordon stepped aside to allow her past, and then shut the door firmly behind him. "Have a seat." He waited until Annabeth had settled herself into one of the battered chairs before he took his seat, too. "Are we ready to get this thing done?"

Annabeth had spent too much time around prevaricating politicians to immediately accept such a can-do attitude. "I suppose it depends on what you mean by 'get it done.'"

Gordon actually smiled, and the warm expression did a great deal to banish the careworn lines which had slowly made their way into his kindly face. "A fair point. I understand that you have some critical information for me?"

"I do." Annabeth frowned and assumed her most no-nonsense, formidable expression. "And while I'm aware that there will be nothing legally binding about this agreement, I want your word that after I give you this information, you and your department will do your best by the victims of the Arrows."

Gordon's eyebrow quirked up. "Sounds intriguing. How many 'victims' are we talking, here?"

"Hard to say. Maybe more than fifty—and that's if we act soon. If we sit on this, it's only going to get worse."

"How bad are we talking here?" Gordon's face had resumed its previous grave expression.

"God only knows. Commissioner...you know that human trafficking is a major problem here in the US—elsewhere, too, but let's focus on the domestic side—not the least reason being that generally the cops take out the traffickers and deport the victims while ignoring the demand which creates the business. Not exactly a thorough and studied treatment of the issue, is it?"

Gordon had long since trained himself to sit back and observe when Annabeth got herself wound up. "No. Not at all."

"The victims are the ones who are punished—almost every time. We _can't _send them back to Eastern Europe, or whatever fucking hellhole they came from, Gordon." Annabeth leaned forward, her eyes burning. "Come on, help me here. Help me make a difference."

There was no denying her—when Annabeth decided to pursue something, she would never fall off the trail. She was faithful to her cause, and she would force others to bow to the justice in it, too.

Gordon sighed, and Annabeth knew she had won—not that it was a particularly difficult battle. She knew Gordon was one of the good guys. "Before we move ahead on this, we'll need to get the Feds and the INS behind us on this," she added.

Working with one bureaucracy was hard enough—but working with Gotham City, in addition to at least two federal bureaucracies and a nonprofit? Gordon personally considered herding feral cats to be easier than that. And apparently, Annabeth sensed his reluctance, for she delivered her winning card. "If we don't get all the help we need, Stacy will consider withdrawing her testimony."

Shock, then anger, and then grudging admiration crossed over Gordon's face as he considered Annabeth's words. Without Stacy's witness statement and testimony, they lost some of the essential incriminating information about and against Boy-o—and they needed Boy-o. As distasteful as it was, a plea bargain would most likely be the order of the day—Stacy incriminated Bo-yo, Boy-o incriminated the Arrows. And Annabeth was willing to risk it all to protect the Arrow's next batch of victims. Was she bluffing?

Gordon studied Annabeth's face and decided not to take that chance. The woman had a spine of steel and a flinty will, and it simply wasn't worth the risk. When it came down to it, Gordon would rather go against the entrenched bureaucracy than Annabeth de Burgh. "Fine," he sighed. Seeing her triumphant smile, he added, "I'll do everything from my end...but I can't promise that the Feds will cooperate."

Annabeth smiled grimly. "I can't ask for anything more than that."

The impasse now circumvented, Gordon moved on to the details. "We won't be able to do anything until we get confirmation that the women are here in Gotham, and how many there are."

"As soon as I hear anything, I'll tell you. I'm waiting for the information, myself." Indeed, at that particular moment, Annabeth looked as though she were hovering just above the streets of Gotham, watching, waiting for her move. "And once we get that information, you'll go ahead with the bust?"

"Within a day or two. " He grinned as a thought occurred to him. "I'll see if I can get the DA to incict Boyo at the same time—it'll help if we can roll this all into one big media brouhaha."

"For once, I think we're on the same page."

Gordon's brain was jumping from one logistic to another. "Will your friend want to be involved?

"My friend?" Annabeth drew a blank for a moment. "Ah. You mean my cross to bear? The winged rodent? I'm sure. And I'll let you clue him to the details." She rose from her seat and began to gather her coat and purse; as far as she was concerned, the interview was over.

Gordon was surprised. "You don't want to fill him in on the details?"

Annabeth gave him a twisted smile, almost more of a grimace. "Something tells me he'll know them before either of us have a chance to tell him. And anyway, I've had about all I can take of _any _male, superhero or otherwise, for a while."

With that, she departed, almost gracefully, leaving Gordon exasperated, bemused, and with twice the amount of work that he had before. Still, he reminded himself as he began to tackle the immense task ahead of him, it was still less than Annabeth dealt with.

It wasn't even quite mid-afternoon when Annabeth returned to Safe Haven, but the place was strangely quiet, as though all of the occupants had gone to sleep, or else disappeared. As she walked through the halls and noted how everyone seemed to be elsewhere, Annabeth grew suspicious. And her suspicions were confirmed as soon as she stepped into her office and saw Donna awaiting her return. The older woman's face was like a thundercloud, and Annabeth correctly surmised that their residents had all, prudently, retreated to less public—and therefore removed from Donna—areas.

This didn't faze Annabeth in the slightest. "Hello!" she greeted her boss cheerfully, carefully setting her purse down and hanging up her coat. Not waiting for Donna to return her greeting, she plopped herself down at her desk and commenced orienting herself—checking her email, glancing at her phone (six missed calls), eying the pile of mail which Maya had delivered—without inquiring about Donna's presence.

"Annabeth."

Of course Annabeth turned to Donna—anything less would have been rudeness and insubordination of the highest order. But as Donna took in Annabeth's expression—again, that strange serenity—she was struck by the unhappy awareness that maybe, just maybe, Annabeth had moved beyond her sphere of influence. It was very possible that Annabeth, quite simply, no longer gave a damn about what was proper, and had decided to follow her own conscience.

God only knew where it would take her.

"Annabeth," Donna said again, with every ounce of power and authority she could summon. It wasn't enough to bring Annabeth to heel, but it was at least enough to make her listen. "What in god's name are you about here?"

"Doing my job."

"Since when is it your job to go around, trying to piss off our single most generous benefactor?" Donna demanded. Even as she spoke, she could feel her control over her anger starting to slip.

"Since when it is my job to whore myself out to him?" Annabeth volleyed back. "Because as I recall, trying to romance billionaires wasn't something we covered in my job interview."

"It's covered by '_other duties as assigned' _in the job description_. _Annabeth, give it a rest. Whatever beef you've got with Bruce Wayne, you need to get over it on your own time. But _here-" _Donna gestured around Annabeth's tiny office, noting as she did that it seemed less crowded and disorganized than it normally did. Annabeth had been cleaning house. What the hell? When did Annabeth ever do that? "_Here," _she continued, "here at Safe Haven, you do what it takes to get the job done. And in case you forget," Donna added, seeing Annabeth begin to open her mouth, "The job is to help our clients. The job is to get the money to help our clients. The job is to make nice to the people who can pay to help our clients. And with that definition, you've been doing a pretty piss-poor job lately."

"Yeah?" Annabeth seemed distinctly unruffled, the exact opposite of Donna. "Well, I think the best solution is for you to find someone else to do the job then. Because I'm done." She calmly rose from her office chair, ignoring Donna's outraged expression. "It seems that your vision for Safe Haven differs dramatically from mine, these days, and I don't want to be an obstacle. And I also don't want to be the disposable date for whenever you want to start courting the next wallet."

Her pronouncement was met with stunned silence. Donna was at a loss for words, torn between fury, shock, and instantaneous regret. As Annabeth proceeded to calmly gather her belongings, however, Donna was galvanized into action.

"Jesus, Annabeth, you don't have to take your toys and go home." Donna collapsed into the chair facing Annabeth's desk, aware that the younger woman had paused and was looking at her. "I'm sorry. I was...harsh."

Annabeth didn't respond. Donna glanced up at her and saw that her eyes were brimming over with unshed tears, and her hands were trembling. "Annabeth?"

Anabeth bowed her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. Before she could stop them, the words tumbled out. "I'm pregnant."

Had Annabeth raised her head, she would have seen a progression of very strange expressions dance over her employer's face. Surprise, joy, and sadness each fleetingly passed over, finally to be crowded out by a grave seriousness as she took in the implications. When she spoke, she struggled to keep her voice from betraying the reproach she longed to give to Annabeth. "How much do you earn in a year?"

"Not enough."

"How much does Bruce Wayne earn in a year?"

"Too much."

"And between the two of you, you couldn't cough up five dollars for a rubber?"

Annabeth laughed, and then coughed, choking on her tears. "I know. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"You _think? _You're not even supposed to be able to get pregnant!"

"Needless to say, I fired my ob-gyn." Annabeth looked helplessly at Donna. "What on earth am I supposed to do?"

"You're asking the wrong woman, Annabeth. The only child I've ever successfully raised was Timmy, and I'm doing that on my own. You and Bruce will figure it out." A thought occurred to Donna. "What's Bruce think about this, anyway?"

Annabeth mumbled her answer so quietly that Donna had to ask her to repeat it—and then again. Finally Annabeth snapped, "He doesn't know!"

If she had thought that that would be enough to silence Donna, she was sorely mistaken.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" Donna demanded. "That's the most selfish—the most foolish thing I've ever heard. If you think for one minute Bruce would stand by and let you take his child away without saying, without knowing anything about it-"

"It's Bruce, Donna." Annabeth gestured to the stack of newspapers which had been piling up on her desk. "Something tells me he doesn't lose a lot of sleep at night worrying about his love children."

"I think you're sorely mistaken, and I think you'll regret it." Donna looked grim. "In fact, I think we'll all regret it—I think Bruce Wayne will be personally responsible for making sure that happens. And I am not going to be in the line of fire if that happens, and neither will Safe Haven." A thought struck her. "And I'm not going to let you commit the biggest fuck-up of your life, either."

"What are you talking about?" For the first time, Annabeth looked uncertain.

"Bruce Wayne's Charity Gala is going to be on December thirteetnh—I've already said you will go, and _you will go. _If you haven't told him by the end of that night, so help me god, Annabeth—I will."


	39. Chapter 39

From the headlines of the December 13th edition of _The Gotham Gazette:_

_**The Two Faces of Harvey Dent: An Imposter Revealed**_

_**In the days and weeks following the death of Harvey Dent and his fiance Rachel Dawes, as well as the destruction and chaos wrought by the criminal known as Joker and the vigilante known as the Batman, the citizens of Gotham drew enormous strength and comfort from the knowledge that the city's honor was ultimately upheld by the noble Dent. This man, we believed, had devoted his life to the public service of Gotham, and suffered an untimely death for the same reason. It was unjust, unexpected, unwarranted—and all too common in the history of Gotham.**_

_**And it appears that we, the citizens of Gotham, were horribly mistaken.**_

_**New information has come to light about the chaos which unfolded during that time, and the part in it that Harvey Dent played. Gotham City PD-MCU has, up until this point, portrayed Dent as a victim in a crime spree engineered by the Batman, but within the last week, a former investigator for MCU—herself imprisoned for the role she played in the crimes—has stepped forward from her jailcell with damning testimony of the truth behind Harvey Dent.**_

**(Story continued on Page A3).**

* * *

Even in her wild, heedless days of college, when she threw caution to the wind and tasted the nectar of freedom for the first time, Annabeth had not needed deadlines. She had slaved away at her studies, written her papers, turned in her assignments, all with plenty of time to spare, because even when Annabeth had been hungover, she was no fool: she knew her education would be the key to her survival.

So, deadlines were a previously useless, foreign concept. And yet, on December 13th, for the first time since she could remember, Annabeth was confronted with a deadline. And she had no clue as to how she could make it.

It had been looming over her all week, since she had told Donna her news...and since Donna had thrown down the gauntlet. Objectively, Annabeth knew that Donna was right; Annabeth may have been a ball-buster, but she had a strong sense of ethics and knowledge of what was just. Bruce deserved to know about her...predicament, however he ultimately decided to handle it. She knew _that_...she just didn't know how to tell him, particularly since she had not exactly left the way open for harmonious communications. And...how on earth was she supposed to find the opportunity to tell him _tonight, _of all nights, when he was hosting another enormous party, and everyone would be demanding his attention?

These were the thoughts that slammed into Annabeth's brains as soon as she awoke on the morning of the Christmas charity party. And then, as she became aware of the angle of the sunlight streaming in through the condo windows, another, more immediately dismaying thought slammed into her brain. _Oh shit. I overslept._

She grappled about on her nightstand for her alarm clock—almost 9:45! She bolted up and instantly regretted it as a wave of dizziness swamped her. "Pregnancy's going to kill me," she muttered to herself. "Dammit." She was supposed to have met Janey for breakfast at 8:30; clearly, that ship had sailed. Reaching over for her cell phone, she immediately saw that there were several missed calls, all of them undoubtedly from her stood-up best friend.

She was distracted from this as her ears caught the sound of keys rattling and the front door being unlocked and opened. It could only be Janey, grown tired of waiting and so hunting her down with the power of the copy of keys Annabeth had given her ages ago.

Sure enough, _"Good morning!" _Janey's voice rang out through the condo, galvanizing Jed and Wurzel out of the bed and into the hallway, making species-appropriate noises as they begged for food. Wearily, Annabeth followed them.

Janey was kicking the door shut behind her as she carefully juggled a thermos, a rather large brown paper bag, a backpack, and a gown still in its dry-cleaner wrappings. "Good _lord, _woman, here I am, up at the ass-crack of dawn to track something down for you to look good in tonight—no easy task, I might add—and then you don't even have the decency to meet me and buy me breakfast as a thank-you? Ungrateful bitch."

Annabeth was already taking the brown paper bag, from which enticing smells were emanating. "Wench," she answered absently. "What'd you bring me?"

"Tea, hot muffins, fruit salad, and turkey bacon, still hot." Janey smiled affectionately as she watched Annabeth set the bag down and begin pawing through it. "And a nice dress that I picked up off the clearance rack down at Nordstroms. Although how much longer you'll be able to fit into it remains to be seen."

Annabeth nearly dropped the container of fruit. "What?"

"I was _kidding," _Janey grinned. "It'll be at least another month or two before you start to show."

"What...how...?"

Janey made her way into the kitchen and began to pull dishes out of the cupboard. "I'm a _nurse," _she pointed out with some asperity. "Sometimes I think I can tell more than the damned doctors can. I can put two and two together...and I know when one plus one equals three, too, I might remind you." She flashed a sharp look at Annabeth. "You tell Bruce yet?"

Annabeth shook her head, trying to get over how stunned she was. "No..." Seeing Janey's face of disapproval, she added, "If you've got any bright ideas as to how, let me know—I've got to tell him tonight."

Shrugging, Janey started doling out the breakfast foods. "That's a tough one. Any chance you can just have the baby and leave it on his doorstep?"

"Unlikely."

"Anyway, telling him should be the least of your problems. Holy christ, Annabeth, you're _pregnant. _We didn't think this could happen."

"I'm still trying to figure it out, myself. I'm switching ob-gyns—I want the best care possible. I think there could be risks still." Worry—as though she didn't have enough of it already—began to creep into her mind.

Janey saw the shadow cross over Annabeth's face. "It's going to be okay. You'll have a safe, healthy pregnancy and delivery, and soon enough you'll kiss a full night's sleep goodbye and curse the luck that got you pregnant."

"I'm not there, yet. Once I get past tonight, I'll focus more on that. But for now..." Annabeth cast a look at the gown Janey had brought in; it was a silent and dreadful reminder of the ordeal ahead.

The two women began to devour their belated breakfast, but before they could become too set into their normally silent meal, Janey blurted, "Oh! _Oh!"_

"Eh?"

"Since you overslept, I guess you didn't hear the news..."

"Not unless it was piped into my dream cycle. What's the latest—Bruce Wayne fathers love child with emu?"

"Better." Janey leaned in and grinned triumphantly. "It appears that your friend of the night has been exonerated."

"What are you talking about?"

Janey hauled up her backpack and began rummaging through it. After a moment, she emerged with the day's newspaper, all rolled up. She spread it out on the counter so that Annabeth could have the full benefit of the headlines screaming out at her. "The Batman. He's the good guy again, it seems."

"Lord." Annabeth was momentarily distracted from her own personal predicament as she read the lurid details: Harvey Dent going off the deep end (n_o surprise, there), _rampaging against innocent and guilty alike, ultimately attacking the Commissioner, his family, and the Batman before dying. "A lot's going unsaid here, don't you think?" she said as she read through the details. "This woman, what's her name? Ramirez. She's in prison now for her role in this...why's she talking now?" She remembered what Detective Montoya had told her the other day, but she was still suspicious.

"Who knows? I think it's the truth, though. Killing Dent and the Mob bosses and all those others, that's not exactly the Batman's MO, is it?" Janey pointed out. "You've worked with the man, what do you think?"

Annabeth shook her head. "I think there's no one truly innocent in this city. But I think that while he's not innocent, he's also not_guilty. _And I think that, for once, the conversation at this shindig tonight will be mercifully interesting."

"Thank god for small blessings," Janey snorted. "Now, let's get you showered and trussed up in this dress and think of all the unlikliest of ways you can say 'Hey, congratulations, you knocked me up.'"

"Actually," Annabeth frowned musingly, "that's the best phrasing I've heard yet. Think I should try it?"

"Only if I'm there and you plan to do this in public. In front of everyone. Otherwise it just wouldn't be worth my time." Janey had already moved on to the more pressing logisitics of Annabeth's appearance. "However you end up telling him, the only thing that I'm concerned about is that you don't look like a slattern when you do. Now get in the shower."

* * *

Several hours later, Annabeth was navigating Janey's car down the lonely Palisades roads, once more making her way to the home of Bruce Wayne. She was driving slowly, carefully, but this had more to do with the fact that she was putting off the moment of her arrival as much as reasonably possible. She had no idea what the night held in store for her, but the one predictable element would be Donna. Her interfering boss had promised to be there the entire evening, keeping a watchful eye upon her. Making sure Annabeth sealed her own fate.

"She's right, you know," Janey had said unexpectedly to Annabeth earlier that day as she had diligently struggled to work Annabeth's hair into some sort of elegant style. Seeing Annabeth's querying look in the mirror, Janey extrapolated. "Donna. She's right about forcing you to do this, to tell Bruce. I don't think you would have told him, otherwise.

"I think you're probably right," Annabeth had agreed, nodding. This movement only earned her a gentle smack upside the head from Janey. "And don't look at me like that—I _know _he deserves to know. I know that it's the right thing to do. But what's right isn't always easy—"

"And what's easy isn't always right. Yeah, yeah, I've heard that one before. No excuse." Janey jabbed a bobby pin into Annabeth's head. "You know what's right. You'll do it, I know you will. You _always _do what's right and fair. You'll just bitch a lot beforehand."

She was right, of course. Annabeth would do the right thing. She had grown up without parents, without family, and she wouldn't deprive her child of the little family it would have.

_If she managed to have it._

That was the rub, the truly frightening thing that eclipsed everything else, even the problem of telling Bruce. Annabeth was focusing more on how to reveal things to him, so that she could avoid the _real _problem: managing to give birth to a baby with no problems, no complications. When she actually paused long enough to think about the potential risks involved, her insides froze with a fear that she had never before encountered.

_Enough. _One problem at a time—she still had no idea how she was going to tell Bruce. And even more alarmingly, she had no idea how she was supposed to have a conversation with Bruce that wouldn't remind her of the fact that she was still unhappily, and probably obviously, very much in love with him.

Suddenly Wayne Manor loomed before her, ablaze with thousands of tastefully, artfully arranged fairy lights, looking benevolent and inviting against the cold, wintery twilight. It was time.

* * *

_If you've been to one Wayne party, you've been to them all._ As snarky as this thought was, it didn't make it any less true, Annabeth realized. Same valet attendants. Same enthusiastic sense of revelry. Same extravagantly dressed crowds. Same bitchy boss waiting to ambush her right outside the main entrance...

_Oh wait. That's new._

Donna joined Annabeth's side as the younger woman stepped out of Janey's Honda and passed her keys on to the valet attendant. "You came."

Annabeth looked at her boss, bedecked in a floor-length gown of black satin and quite at ease. "Hello," she said cautiously. Relations had not been particularly warm between them since Donna had issued her ultimatum. "I suppose you're here to spy on me?"

"That's one way to look at it," Donna smiled. Then she linked her arm through the crook of Annabeth's elbow and guided her forward. "So, yes. But also, I figured you could use some moral support tonight. You're not the first person in the world to go through something like this...and so there's no reason why you have to go through it alone, without a friend."

The look of gratitude Annabeth gave Donna expressed far more than simple words ever could. At the end of the day, Donna was her ally—quite possibly the only one she had.

"Any idea of how you're going to tell him?" Donna muttered in her ear as they joined the throng of party-goers lining up to pass through the entrance.

"Haven't a clue. The thought of giving him a _10000 Baby Names _book crossed my mind." They both flashed their engraved invitations to the impeccably-dressed but threateningly stoic security guards at the entrance and stepped into the light and warmth of Wayne Manor. Just beyond the bouncers stood Bruce Wayne, with Alfred at his side...and several females surrounding him.

"Not exactly sure how this is going to happen," Donna hissed. "But if ever you have operated with discretion, now would be the time to do it. Keep your mouth shut until we get them away from those harpies. _Bruce," _she added in a louder, warmer tone as they drew close. She leaned in and proffered a cheek to him, which he dutifully kissed. "So lovely to see you."

"Likewise." Bruce's eyes, revealing nothing, danced away from Donna and took in Annabeth, standing back silently and letting Donna do the talking. "Thank you for coming." This he said to Annabeth.

A moment of tense, expectant silence stretched out between them. Annabeth felt Donna's grip tighten on her elbow. Her throat constricted, she could not talk—but she forced herself to meet Bruce's gaze and give one, brief nod. And then they were sweeping past, heading into the Manor, joining the revelries.

"It was fine." Donna was leaning in so close that no one else could hear. "You were remarkably...not an asshole to him. And then wasn't the right time to tell him. We'll find a way to do it tonight."

It was so far removed from her hostile ultimatum of earlier in the week that Annabeth could not help but to draw back and stare in amazement. "Sometimes I don't know whose side you're on," she remarked.

Donna smiled sadly. "Sometimes I don't, either."

* * *

_If you've been to one Wayne fundraiser, you've been to them all._

Vicki Vale made a mental note of this, and then laughingly, silently scolded herself for internalizing the same ennui that seemed to emanate from the very clean, well-maintained pores of every monied attendee in the Manor. She was not one of them, and so there was always the possibility of seeing something new.

And at any rate, it was a chance for her to wear the new stilettos she had snagged with part of her Christmas bonus.

Her eyes darted around, skimming over the usual suspects (really, Gotham society did become a bit limited after so many of these parties) and seeking out new blood. Bradford Winston and his new wife were not present—all sources were in agreement that the obnoxiously happy couple had taken a honeymoon trip down to Africa to celebrate with Elisa's missionary parents. There was Annabeth de Burgh—now _that _was a little surprising, but not completely unexpected. She was circulating with a tall, blonde woman ("of a certain age, but well maintained" was Vicki's diplomatic way to describe her) that Vicki knew to be her boss Donna Drake, and who was no stranger to the social scene. Despite Donna Drake's presence, Annabeth's appearance was _most _advantageous. There was a story there, and Vicki had been sniffing it for a while...

Ah, who was _that? _Vicki could not help to notice the tall, gangly young woman who seemed to tower over most of the other women in the room. She was dressed in a vintage gown—so out of fashion it was _in _fashion, in a rather annoyingly hipster sort of way—sporting a spiky hairdo, and sticking close to the side of Commissioner Gordon. But there was nothing uncertain about this young woman, Vicki could tell. Her eyes were twinkling and she had a ready smile and a rather braying laugh for anyone who paused to speak with her. Socially hopeless, of course, but no less fascinating. Vicki moved through the crowds and headed over to her.

And so it was that Barbara Gordon Jr. came to the rescue of Annabeth de Burgh and Bruce Wayne without even meaning to.

While the food, the people, the entertainment, even the decorations were a little rote, a little...predictable, the one thing that was different was the conversation. As Annabeth had predicted, tongues were wagging all over the Manor about the news of the month: the unexpected exoneration of the Batman.

More than a few men and women looked askance at Commissioner Gordon, silently wondering what role he had played in the strange events and the stranger revelations that had only just come about. Most, however, were more focused on the glamorous aspect of the situation, and the burning question that they were _all _wondering: would the Batman be publicly cleared? Would he resume the high-profile activities which had first catapulted him into the city's spotlight, as it were?

"No need for him to come around anymore," one garrulous and clueless older man said to Donna and Annabeth. By his florid face and occasional hiccups, he was already deep in his cups. "Crime's down, we certainly don't notice anything, do we?"

"Don't you think," Annabeth asked sweetly, "the lack of crime you notice might have something more to do with where you live, and your socioeconomic status?" She felt Donna's fingers dig warningly into her arm, and made sure to punctuate her point with an equally sugary smile.

The man shrugged. "I think it's more likely that the lower your socioeconomic status, the more likely it is that you're going to be involved in the crimes that are still being committed."

"More champagne, sir?" Alfred miraculously appeared, bearing a tray of the offered liquid. The man helped himself and promptly wondered off, no doubt in search of more tractable company. The three people he left behind simply looked at each other for a moment, each with their own private thoughts.

Finally Alfred smiled. "That was Grant Forrester," he told them. "Great-great-grandson of the business tycoon Fitzwalter Forrester, and heir to the family fortune, if not the family brains. Not exactly known for enlightened or empathetic business strategies."

Donna took one of the flutes of champagne that he offered, and passed Annabeth a flute of sparkling water while she was at it. "We appreciate the intervention. And actually...may I leave Annabeth here in your company for a while? I see a few acquaintances I need to say hello to, and I'd hate to drag Annabeth all around the room. She's feeling a little under the weather."

"Certainly," Alfred smiled. "It's been a few weeks, so we'll have plenty to discuss while I keep Miss Annabeth out of trouble."

It had to happen, Annabeth knew that. Donna was forcing her further along into the quest of meeting the evening's deadline. It was only a matter of time before Bruce came around looking for his butler...she swallowed nervously and noticed that her mouth had gone dry with dread and apprehension. A heavy feeling of dread began to take root in the pit of her stomach, and she felt her heart rate increase.

Alfred smiled benignly down upon her. He was about to speak...

"Well, _hello _there!" Katie Moriarty, wife and puppetmaster to the President of Gotham University and one of the more useful contacts Annabeth had made within the last few months, suddenly appeared at Annabeth's elbow. "It's been too long. Where have you been?"

"Ah...holidays," Annabeth offered lamely. She smiled at the woman who accompanied Katie, yet another blonde woman. "April, isn't it? I think I met you at a fundraiser earlier this year." Not very stimulating conversation, if she recalled, but that wasn't surprising, and she had long since ceased to hold it against these people.

April nodded, and dull conversation or not, she certainly had a warm enough smile. "You're right, I'm April. Katie's sister-in-law. Thank you, Alfred," she said as she too helped herself to the champagne. "Katie and I were just talking about the Batman."

"Who isn't?" Katie rolled her eyes. "My lord, I've said from the beginning that the man wasn't bad. Remember? That night at the hotel? I told you we should give the man a medal."

April screwed up her eyes, trying to remember. "Wasn't that the night that Bruce hopped into the fountain with a couple of models? And then bought the hotel?"

"That's the night," Katie agreed. And then, glancing at Annabeth, tactfully steered the subject into less awkward territory. "Anyway, I said it then, and I'll say it now: he's done this city a lot more good than most of us have done. Give the man a medal and let him go on his way."

April was done agreeing that Katie was the sharper woman. "Yes, well...hopefully he won't be turning up at tonight's party."

Katie snorted. "He only did that the once, right, Bruce?"

To Annabeth's dismay, Bruce had surfaced and joined their group. He glanced around, took them all in. "Only the once," he agreed. "With the Joker guy. Wrecked a damned good party."

April laughed, and for the first time, there was a slightly challenging edge to her voice. "Not that you'd know—you hit the panic room before the Batman ever showed up."

Bruce ducked his head sheepishly but made no effort to deny it. "I'm not great in combative situations."

Never known for her tact, April offhandedly asked, "Wasn't that the last time we saw Rachel?"

A tense silence fell over the tiny group. Annabeth watched Bruce's expression carefully. That blank look, the one she had come to know and dread, slipped over his face for a moment. "That was the last time we saw Rachel socially," he agreed.

Katie was giving April dirty looks.

_Rachel. _How could Annabeth forget? Even when she and Bruce were at their closest, Bruce had always seemed to carry a private grief for her. Rachel. Rachel Dawes. Dead and gone, not forgotten. And Annabeth suspected that a flame still burned very brightly in Bruce's heart, in memory of his almost love. What was it that he had said, so long ago, that night that they had first kissed? _"I would have walked on a bed of nails for her, jumped out of a thirty-story building, even._" Damn, she was a fool to have forgotten and ignored it.

Quite unaware of Annabeth's agonies, clueless April was still prattling on. "God, I'll never forget that night. I think a few of us thought, for one sick second, that the Joker coming in was some sort of warped prank of yours." She shuddered. "There's not a doubt in my mind about what he would have done if-"

"_If the Batman hadn't shown up and fought him," _Katie pointed out patiently.

"Whatever, he still did enough damage. But you're right, thank god the Batman was there—he jumped quick enough to save Rachel when that bastard threw her out the window. I'll give him that. Didn't hesitate for a second to jump out of a thirty story building."

Annabeth spat out a mouthful of water.

Instantly, Bruce realized what had happened. He, too, remembered the night he had said to Annabeth what he would have done for Rachel. And he saw, just now, the stunned expression on her face as the last, damning connection was made.

Sweetly clueless as ever, and completely indifferent to the fact that her Jimmy Choos now sported a mixture of water and saliva, April thumped Annabeth on the back. "You poor thing, I think it went down the wrong way. Are you okay?"

Desperately, Bruce put an arm around Annabeth. "I think she needs some air. Alfred, can you give me a hand?"

Alfred knew something was very, very wrong. He immediately set his tray down on the closest table and came to Annabeth's other side. "Excuse us, ladies."

Katie and April watched in surprise as the three of them began to wind their way through the crowds.

"Touchy girl," April remarked to Katie. And then glanced down in dismay as she finally noticed her shoes, but not before adding, "She looks like she just saw the Batman."

Speechless with shock, Annabeth meekly allowed Bruce and Alfred to steer her through the scented, bejeweled, grand crowds of revelers who had no idea of the potential drama which was unfolding before their very eyes. Bruce and Alfred didn't pause for a second; in fact, as Alfred peered over the top of Annabeth's lowered head and saw Bruce's grim face, Bruce simply mouthed _"She knows," _and that was all it took for Alfred to speed up his pace.

Without conferring on this point, and as of one accord, they found themselves heading towards the study. _The _study. Deep enough into the Manor to be out of the way of most of the guests, and of course, right there at the entrance to Bruce's biggest secret. Mercifully, the study was empty, and Alfred guided Annabeth to the nearest chair. She slumped forward and buried her head in her hands.

"I'm going for some water," Alfred murmured to Bruce, and gave him a meaningful glance. "I think you two need to talk."

That much was patently obvious, but what to say?

Annabeth answered this question for him. As Alfred quietly made his departure, she raised her head and focused on Bruce. "You...you. You're..._him."_

Bruce simply stayed where he stood and looked at her. Waited.

"How can you be him? The Batman?" Even as Annabeth asked this question, her brow furrowed in thought, in recollection. One memory after another, one strange action after another, one cryptic remark after another, all of them crowding into her head and demanding her acknowledgment.

"You both...came into my life around the same time," she muttered. Looked at Bruce to confirm, which he did with a terse nod. "You were investigating me, weren't you?"

Another nod. His eyes were as hard and cold as Arctic ice; his face was an expressionless mask. For that, for intruding into her life in two different guises, he would not apologize.

"Donna had said...you were in the city a lot, pulling a lot of late nights. _The bruises. _Is that how you get hurt?"

A pause, then, "Yes."

"And that's why you didn't tell me." Annabeth fell silent again, her agile brain trying very hard to connect these two very different realities. "I just never imagined..."

He laughed, an abrupt, harsh sound. "That's precisely the point. Looks like I'm doing my job right."

Another thought occurred to Annabeth, the most pressing one that had, temporarily, fallen to the back of her mind. The baby. Her baby. _Their _baby. Oh god, she had told the Batman. _H__e knew. _She doubled over again, clutching her arms protectively over her stomach. Everything was going to hell in a handbasket.

He saw her gesture of defensive protection, and tried to soften his expression. After all, he was the one who had perpetrated a series of lies, and even though it was for her protection, it was still a violation of trust. And now she knew he knew about the baby, and however she had planned to tell him—_if _she had intended to tell him—he was certain this would not have been the way that she would have chosen.

Oh yes, and the father of her unborn child was a vigilante with a penchant for costumes and forceful persuasion. Not exactly ideal circumstances for her. Impulsively, he squatted on the floor by her chair. "Annabeth."

She was still going over the last few months in her head, trying to re-define, re-process, and re-interpret everything, and so at first she did not realize that Bruce was right there. He gently placed a hand on her knee. "Annabeth."

Just then, Alfred came bustling back into the room with a glass pitcher and a goblet. "Everything alright, Master Wayne?"

Annabeth answered before he had the chance to. "What the hell do you think, Alfred?" She glared over at him. "You've got a woman here in your house that knows your secret—and I'm guessing you're in on it too, yes?"

In hindsight, Bruce could see that Alfred's reaction was just what was needed in that potentially volatile moment. He didn't answer Annabeth right away and refused to be baited. Rather, he imperturbably poured water into the goblet; the ice and water clinked against the crystal agreeably and elegantly, and seemed to bring a sense of gentility and order back into the situation. Only after he had passed Annabeth the goblet did he answer. "I assist Master Wayne with his duties, yes."

It was a modest answer, perfectly worded. _Duties. _The word hung on the air, a noble word, implying honor and sacrifice and a sense of rightness. And it took Annabeth aback. She glanced at Alfred, and then at Bruce, and then back to Alfred. "So you know? You've always known?"

"He has. But none of this is Alfred's fault." Bruce's voice, quiet and firm and not quite as stern as before, dragged her attention back to him. "Don't be angry with Alfred, he's been telling me to tell you for a long time. Be angry with me, if you have to."

"You two have much talking to do," Alfred pointed out. "But now isn't exactly the best time..." he glanced over at Annabeth, who was cradling her head in her hands again. "Miss Annabeth?"

"Annabeth?" Bruce's tone was sharp again, but with worry. "What's wrong?"

"A little dizzy," she mumbled. "Too much excitement, I guess."

The stakes were raised, the risks much greater than they had ever been. Gently, Bruce tugged Annabeth's arm and guided her up from the chair and over to a sofa. "Lay down. Stay here for now...should we call an ambulance?"

Annabeth actually rolled her eyes. "It's not that unusual. I'm okay for now, I just need a minute..."

As usual, Alfred came to the rescue. "May I suggest, Master Wayne, that you return to the guests for a while? Let Donna know that Annabeth will be staying here for a while...and then, perhaps, cause some sort of scene? Feign illness? Announce an orgy in the West Wing? Something to get the guests out of the Manor so you can continue...straightening things out here."

"You'll stay here with Annabeth until I can get back?" Bruce didn't look happy with this idea, although it was clearly a good one.

"Won't leave her side," Alfred promised.

It wasn't the best of plans, but it certainly was more than anything Bruce could think of at the present. Ironic, he thought as he headed back to the party. He and Alfred and Lucius spent so much time preparing for any eventuality that could possibly unfold and complicate the Batman's life and work, but they had directed absolutely no resources towards addressing the possibility of a compromised or discovered identity. And now they had to deal with the fallout. Which, oddly enough, was an entirely different issue from the other matter—Annabeth and the unborn child which had already defied all odds in being conceived.

Apparently, it had inherited its parents' talent for tenacity and complications.

Back in the study, Annabeth and Alfred were left in a strained silence. Annabeth cast him occasional accusing glances and Alfred puttered around the room, finding that his conscience did not sit easily in the loaded atmosphere. Finally, she spoke.

"How long have you known?"

Alfred sighed. So he was the one who would have to answer the first onslaught of questions. _Bloody typical. _Still, he couldn't blame Annabeth; for all she knew, he was as much the Batman as Bruce Wayne was. "Since the beginning. Master Wayne told me about it from the beginning, when he returned to Gotham...he needed my help."

"He trusted you."

Alfred did not disagree with this observation. "He did. He does."

_Goddamn. _Annabeth shook her head, as if she could somehow physically martial her thoughts into some semblance of coherency. So much made sense now...but at the same time, she could not yet accept it as fact. The two men...Bruce Wayne, so refined and urbane and a little bit foppish...was also the Batman, the hulking, raw, elemental force of urbanized nature? "It's not exactly believable," she said softly, almost to herself.

Nonetheless, Alfred heard her. "That's exactly the point, my dear. No one is _supposed _to believe Bruce Wayne to be capable of something like that—no one should have any reason to make that connection. The two men are completely different."

"Which one is the real one?"

A good question, although Alfred refrained from saying so. "Both are real. But I have to say...there's a third facet to his personality, the most genuine facet, and I see it most often around you."

Before Annabeth could respond, Bruce re-entered the room. He looked every bit as grave as when he left. "The guests are handled...I told them that I've been called away on unexpected business to Aruba, and that they were to have free reign over the wine cellar."

"Bloody hell," Alfred swore. It was the closest Annabeth had ever seen him get to losing his composure. He wasted no time in beating a hasty retreat to defend the vintage collection he had spent months building up. Bruce allowed himself a ghost of a smile before he turned his attention back to Annabeth.

"I guess we've got some catching up to do."

* * *

Above ground, in the public rooms of Wayne Manor, the party carried on. Alfred quickly realized that the endangered wine cellar had been a ruse to draw him away from Annabeth, and so, not without some misgivings, he bowed to Bruce's wishes and continued watching over the festivities. The band played, the youngsters danced, the older women gossiped, the older men wheeled and dealed, and everyone ate, drank, and made merry, completely ignorant of anything else

Down in the Batcave, a very different scene was unfolding.

Bruce stood quietly by, his arms folded, his face inscrutable as he watched Annabeth. She stood in the middle of the Batcave, occasionally turning around, looking up, down, all over, taking in the peculiar surroundings. She looked at the cavernous ceiling, from which more than a few bats hung and fluttered about; she looked over at the hulking Tumbler, large and black and solid and seemingly unmovable; she took in the massive wall of computers and surveillance equipment, the medical station, the work benches, the makeshift library of overflowing bookshelves.

"Well," she said softly. "I guess things make a little more sense."

Behind her, she heard Bruce release a heavy sigh, as though he had been refraining from breathing, awaiting her words. "This wasn't ever something that I intended you to find out about."

"Clearly," Annabeth said dryly. She turned and forced herself to look at him—really look at him, seeing both the Bruce Wayne and the Batman of his character for the first time. "This is a lot to take in."

His eyes met hers, and for the first time since they had parted ways after Bellingham, each met the other's gaze with honesty. Their expressions matched completely; each face reflected a poignant combination of vulnerability, wariness, sorrow. And neither knew what to say.

Still, Annabeth took a shot. "Does anyone else know?"

An unexpectedly savage pain shot through Bruce. "Lucius Fox. And Rachel...Rachel knew. I told her."

Annabeth nodded. The pain was visible on his face, and she tried to ignore the completely useless sense of jealousy that niggled at her awareness. What the hell? That should be the least of her concerns.

"She didn't approve," Bruce added. And then, before he could stop himself, he asked, "Do you?"

Annabeth didn't answer, not right away. She gazed around the cave again, and then over at Bruce. He had kept a distance—no doubt deliberately—from her during this revelatory process, but his tension emanated off of him in heavy waves.

"I don't know what to say," she said softly. "How can I answer this when I don't even know what to think?" She exhaled a pent-up breath and shook her head. "This is...completely, totally...I don't even know. I'd say insane, but that would make me insane too, wouldn't it? After all, I've been consorting with your alter ego for months, and you _lied, _you deliberately deceived me, you kept it a complete secret. Like some sort of goddamned game."

Stung, Bruce retorted, "I'm not the only one keeping secrets. Seems like you know about something that could change the rules of the game quite a bit."

And with those well-chosen, impulsive words, he took the wind right out of Annabeth's indignantly puffed-up sails. He was right, and it was the same thing that Donna and Janey had been saying to her for the past week. Bruce's eyes bore accusingly into her skull, and for the first time, she could see the rage in them directed at her. It occurred to her, rather belatedly, that this was not the best place for her to be sequestered, alone, with Bruce Wayne. And it occurred to her, as well, that her view of him had changed, perhaps forever.

"We have some things to figure out," Bruce said quietly, his words hanging on the chilly air.

Annabeth shook her head. "Bruce, this is...way too much for me to take in right now. I'm probably in shock, and the last thing I need to do is try to get cornered into a decision about my baby."

"_Our _baby," Bruce corrected her fiercely, and this time, the anger in his voice was evident. "We both had a hand or...something else...in this. We both get a say."

They glared at each other for a moment, and not surprisingly, Annabeth was the first to break off the gaze. Her standards of honesty were strict, even with herself, and she knew she was in the wrong on this one. She glanced around the cave, and seeing a stool tucked underneath Bruce's workbench, she dragged it out and settled herself upon it. "Well. Since we both get a say...then maybe you should start talking."

For one of the first times, Annabeth saw Bruce less than totally prepared. He actually gaped at her for a second. "Pardon?"

"_Talk, _Bruce." Annabeth gestured around the room. "Seems like you've got plenty left to tell me, and since you don't approve of secrets, I'm assuming you want to share."

The cave was ominously silent as Bruce stared at her, his protective reserve doing battle with the common sense in what she said. Wildly, he glanced around, as though looking to his expensive equipment and supplies to yield answers, or better yet, to do the talking for him. For the first time, he had an audience other than Alfred, someone curious, someone demanding answers, not visibly judging him...and he had not a clue as to what to say. Quite literally, he was uncertain if he could even speak.

Annabeth nodded; his reticence spoke more volumes than anything he could have actually vocalized to her. "Looks like you've got a ways to go before you can really pass judgments about secrets, Bruce." With as much decisiveness as when she had seated herself on the stool, she now vacated it, and headed towards the lift. "Tell you what...when you can talk, we'll talk. Not until then."

Somehow, she made it into the lift without looking back, or even looking around at the wondrous cavern and all its many strange treasures. Somehow, she kept her composure as the lift creaked its way back into the study, and somehow, she kept her composure as she passed by Alfred, quietly keeping vigil outside the study door. She kept her composure as she made her way past the revelers, all of whom were too absorbed in their own lives and merriment to notice Bruce Wayne's former dalliance, looking very much as though she had just seen the Joker tap-dancing around Gotham Square Station. She kept her composure as the valet brought her car around, and she kept her composure as she got in and navigated the car out of the Manor and down the road.

Annabeth kept her composure for about another half-mile after that, and finally, on the dark, winding road that trailed through the Palisades, she lost every shred of her iron control, pulled over, and wept. She had no idea what she was crying for, but she knew enough of her life and its complications to know that this would probably not be the last tears she shed over the bizarre situation in which she had somehow enmeshed herself. She was in the dark, both literally and figuratively.

And so, of course she did not see Bruce, keeping a silent vigil from the nearby brush, and of course, she had no way of knowing that he, too, was trying to find his way through the dark, to find a way to make things right.


	40. Chapter 40

The old Super Saver Seven Inn on the north end of Bennett, West Virginia had been closed for only ten months. In fact, it had been one of the first businesses in town to feel the ominous rumbles of the economic storm which had begun to wreak havoc on the country earlier in the year. Its owners, two divorced sisters from Delaware, had struggled along as best they could before finally acknowledging that purchasing a falling-apart motel at the wrong end of town had been an even worse gamble than marrying their husbands had been. Although, they acknowledged ruefully, the payoff was similar enough—sleepless nights, haggard appearances, depleted bank accounts.

The two sisters had quietly packed up what they could, defaulted on their bank loans, and late one night, slipped away back to Delaware, and, one could only hope, better financial and personal decisions. They had left behind a handful of disgruntled but not entirely surprised creditors; a town which quickly enough experienced similar economic letdowns; and of course, the falling-apart motel which had been the cause of some of their woes. In the absence of owners, the motel had fallen into a predictable state of disrepair...but not, interestingly enough, disuse.

The bank manager who had approved the loan was, of course, not pleased by the failure, but he was both an optimist and an opportunist. Or, rather, he was an opportunist _because _he was an optimist. No need for a perfectly good building to lie fallow! If it couldn't _stay _in business, fine, but that wasn't to say it couldn't _do _business. And so, in the mysteriously efficient way that all criminals and low-lifes had, word began to spread up and down the East Coast that, for little money and even less questions, upstanding West Virginia citizen Randall Jackson could provide a basic, discreet, and conveniently-located flophouse.

It was an arrangement that suited a great many people quite well. Unsavory characters had a quiet place to rest their heads before carrying on with their illegal traffic; Randall made a nice little off-the-books extra income; the hoteliers on the nicer end of town (with a view of the mountains rather than the factory) didn't have to expose their clientele to the seedier elements, and the neighborhood diner actually noticed an increase in business. Randall's "guests" didn't make trouble, and on the few occasions they ventured into the town restaurants, they usually tipped well. All in all, a fairly decent arrangement.

Of course, not all of Randall's "guests" thought so, but those were the unfortunate guests who weren't consulted about _any _of the travel arrangements.

Of course, the accommodations were not spectacular, as the evening's current "guest", an overweight Gotham mafia ("Gothia," Randall had silently dubbed him) lout, hadn't hesitated to point out. Apparently, the lumpy bed, the non-existent television reception, and lack of Bvlgari toiletries weren't acceptable to a mid-level crime boss of his stature. Randall had merely thrown the lout a chilly look and offered to give him directions to the Quality Inn, over by the city jail, and the lout had fallen silent.

Shortly thereafter, Randall received his payment and exited the motel room, pulling his coat tight against the December chill and heading out to his car. He had a long-standing dinner arrangement with the Circuit Judge, the Reverend Wilkes, and a couple of Town Council members, and if he hurried, he could make it to the Moose Lodge by 7:30.

* * *

After the stringy hick banker had finally departed, Donzetti had finally allowed himself to relax. It had been a _very_ long day—he and the others in the caravan had been going since 5 AM, setting a merciless pace and stopping as little as possible. It had paid off, too—they had made it all the way from Texarkana, and if the weather held, they'd be in Gotham within 24 hours.

_And not a moment too soon, _Donzetti grimly noted to himself. He'd be perfectly content passing along the responsibilities of international travel once he returned to the city. He wasn't a Gotham native—he had come to the city at 19, after being exiled from Brooklyn for an unfortunately rough encounter with a beloved neighborhood girl—but he had embraced his adopted city with gleeful zeal. And le Blanc had been very good to him. And so that was where he belonged, in Gotham, at le Blanc's side.

His romp halfway around the world had been an eye-opening experience. Unprepared for the strange food, the guttural voices, the bitter cold, and the brutal poverty, Donzetti had been frequently unsettled and even disgusted. He liked his women varied, certainly, and an ethnic mix was all good and well, but only if their beautiful faces lacked the particularly desperate expression he had come to see lurking in the faces of the admittedly beautiful but oddly enigmatic Eastern European women. He liked his American food, his American toilets, his American beds. Let Trin handle the travel and business portion of this venture; le Blanc had suggested he was getting too old for it anyway, and Donzetti agreed. And it resolved the nagging question about what to do with Trin.

At the end of the day, Donzetti liked to think of himself as a connoisseur of women. He loved them, loved their beauty, loved their bodies, and on occasion, even loved their words and thoughts. And therein lay the problem with any sort of commitment to any one woman for a long stretch of time; it was dreadfully limiting. How could he stick with one woman when there were so many more to discover? Hell, he and Trin had given it a good run, but it had run its course; the trip to Russia had been good for reminding him of that, at least. Surrounded by all of those beautiful women—enigmatic and recovering Communist and slightly desperate though they might have been—Donzetti realized that there were simply too many women left for him to pursue.

But what about Trin? Would she go back to her old line of work? Donzetti hadn't liked that idea much, and so, between le Blanc and him, they conjured up a new job, a new life for Trinity. She was more well-suited for this than Donzetti was, and she certainly would do a fine job of it. He'd miss their evenings together, but upward and onward and all that.

His mind, and then other things, wandered. Two rooms over, cowering and terrified, was his latest interest, a seventeen-year-old half-Chinese beauty named Zhao. How she had found her way into Eastern Europe was any body's guess, but no one really cared. She was here now, and she was now Donzetti's.

With a lascivious smile, he headed out of his motel room. He'd make a run down to the diner and get some extra food—the meager rations they were keeping the girls on would certainly be enough to get Zhao eating out of his hand, both literally and otherwise. And once he explained how the alternative would be—once he described the stash house—she'd be begging to be his lady.

In the meantime...he decided to try to give the heating system a try. Had the stringy banker said it would work? Couldn't hurt to try. He fiddled around with the thermostat, flipping a couple of switches, but the only thing that happened was that the unit in the wall gave a death rattle and actually began to spew out what felt like air conditioning. Well, looked like he would need some of the girls to keep him warm that night anyway.

Not a bad way to spend the evening, but still...Donzetti would be glad to return to the civilization of Gotham.

* * *

If a Professor of Sociology or Urban Studies were to devote their career to the research of Gotham City as an epicenter of civilization, they would quickly learn that within Gotham, two main types of people existed: those who believed that Gotham _was _a hub of civilization, and those who believed that, if one scratched the surface of Gotham's wealth, architecture, and infrastructure, one would find very little civilization indeed.

The former type of person was usually a delusional transplant, the latter, a cynical native.

Seth Percival fell into the former category. He was a transplant, and he considered himself a very refined man in a very sophisticated and advanced city. Little by little, he was clawing his way to the top of Gotham's financial and social ladders and so far, he was enjoying the view. He had money, he had class—well, he was _developing _class— he had damned good taste. He was currently in one of the most exclusive restaurants in Gotham, enjoying his roasted squab with arugula subric (paired with a stunning Cabernet Sauvignon, of course), dressed in a custom-designed Rizzoli suit, and after his meal, he would enjoy a very delectable—and illegal—Cuban cigar.

The company wasn't too bad, either.

It wasn't his wife, the beautiful but cowed woman who had first benefitted by, and then later suffered because of Annabeth's intervention. His wife, too, was the epitome of class—one of the reasons Seth had married her to begin with—but her presence would have been a hindrance during this evening's business transactions. Because it was just business, of course—nothing more, nothing less, despite the cultivated beauty of Seth's dining companion, despite the history they shared. Just business. Not an affair.

That wouldn't be civilized.

Seth gazed across the table at his dining companion; through his small, shrewd eyes he could see that she was uncomfortable. She'd been uncomfortable with him for years, but she still kept coming back.

He wasn't complaining. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. And while she wasn't getting paid for the information she was passing along to him tonight, she was still benefiting. At least, that's what she told herself, and him.

"It's the last time, Seth," she sighed. "I've been doing this too long now. You've taken all you can from me..."

"I could say the same thing," he smirked. "So, let me get this straight...she's stashed at Safe Haven? She hasn't been farmed out? Not in witness protection? She's actually _there?"_

"Yes." The woman looked tired, as though she wanted to be done with this entire distasteful thing. "But I don't know for how much longer—they could take her out any day."

"So we need to get to her first," Seth said quietly, almost to himself. "We'll need to move fast."

The woman frowned. "You won't need to move at all. I can get her out of there, pass her along to you, without anyone knowing. You just pass along the information—stay out of Safe Haven. Stay away, you promise?"

Seth smiled, an oily smile that could have chilled the heart of a snake. "Promise. How soon?"

"Soon." The woman bit her lip, thinking. "Within a week, maybe? I'll be in touch with the details. Just—let them know that she'll be coming. Get ready to do what you have to do."

"You don't look thrilled by this, Donna," Seth smiled. "Not finding this to your taste?"

Donna was done. "This was never to my taste, Seth. But I did what I had to do." She rose from the table, eager to quit his company and retreat to a less tainted place, even if it was only in the furthest recesses of her scarred soul.

Seth had to have the last word, just as he always had. "That's what makes a civilization, you know—doing what you have to do, even when it's hard...and doing it in the classiest way possible."

"Dude, this is taking forever. Why the fuck do we have to wait so long?"

Annabeth glared at the young girl who sat by her side. In the weeks that Stacy had spent at Safe Haven, a few—but not many—changes had been wrought on her stubborn, punk-ass ways. She still cussed like a sailor (although, when she was honest with herself, Annabeth could admit her own penchant for profanity would not help cure that particular bad habit of Stacy's), she still seemed impervious to all appeals made to her common sense, and she still regarded many of Safe Haven's rules as below her. She had already given a nose piercing to one of the other residents, a thirteen-year-old girl whose mother was preoccupied with her own problems. And more than once, Annabeth had caught a distinct whiff of pot smoke around her. Not to mention the fact that on a semi-regular basis, Stacy shunned all company and disappeared for hours at a stretch, taking off for god only knew where.

But still...she had developed a fairly gentle way about her with the children, and often when she went missing, she usually turned up in the library, nose buried in a hefty book. Little by little, her surliness was receding, and Annabeth quite often felt encouraged, even hopeful.

Now, however, was not one of those times.

Any casual passerby would have immediately noted that the two females were a study in contrasts. Annabeth sat, as any dignified, professional lady would, with her back straight, her head cocked, her alert eyes darting around, taking her surroundings. She was dressed well, too; a pressed skirt and a conservative blouse, dark colors, low heels. Stacy slouched beside her, her head tilted back over the headrest of the bench, her kohl-lined eyes closed in sheer boredom, her hands tucked into the pockets of her hoodie, her sneaker-shod feet stretched out in front of her. Foot traffic—mainly distracted cops and investigators—had to step over and around her. No one paused to admonish her, however; Annabeth suspected that sulky, indifferent juveniles were not an uncommon sight at the MCU.

"This is taking _forever," _Stacy complained again. "It's eleven-fifteen. Why'd that dude tell us to get here at ten-thirty in the morning if he's going to make us wait this long?"

"That _dude _is Commissioner Gordon," Annabeth rebuked her sharply. "Have some respect. You owe him a lot. And he didn't purposely keep us waiting. He's a busy man. Something probably came up."

Stacy didn't deign to respond, and Annabeth resumed looking dignified.

"Why do we even have to be here?" Stacy demanded after a minute.

"Gordon and I wanted to discuss the possibility of turning you back over to the Arrows."

"What?" That rousted Stacy from her studied ennui, if nothing else. "Are you fucking serious?"

"No." Annabeth bent over and began to rummage through the briefcase at her feet. "I'm just trying to prove a point—it could be a lot worse. Stop whining, you sound like you're ten. Gordon and I wanted to meet with you and go over your options, see what else is needed, review your statements, so on. Anyway, what else do you have to do that's so important?"

"I promised Dinah I'd pierce her labia this afternoon."

"What?" It was Annabeth's turn to be startled out of her composed expression. "What the fu—are you kidding me?"

"Yes."

Annabeth was rescued from any temptation to speak to her or strangle her as her attention was caught by the soft _ping _of the elevator bell. A moment later, the doors opened and Jim Gordon stepped into the lobby of the MCU. He was swathed in a great overcoat and looking both exhausted and chilled to the bone. His eyes immediately alighted on the two females and he hurried over. Annabeth rose to meet him. Stacy did not.

"Annabeth, I'm so sorry." He looked it, too. "There was a...ahh...personal issue that I had to attend to. I've kept you waiting."

Annabeth caught on immediately. "It's fine, Commissioner." She glanced back at Stacy. Satisfied that the younger girl didn't give a damn beyond any scheme that didn't involve mischief yield pot money, she turned back to Gordon. "How's your wife?"

If Gordon was startled by Annabeth's razor-sharp perception, he didn't show it. "Not great."

"Withdrawal should be over by now. What's wrong?"

Gordon gestured helplessly. "I suppose she's actually fine. _She's _fine. _We're _not."

The unspoken words seeped in, and Annabeth nodded. "Ah. I see."

If there was a less appropriate place than the MCU Lobby to discuss the distressing turn Gordon's life had taken, he could not think of it. And it was a measure of how low he had been brought that he just didn't give a damn. His shoulders slumped as he continued. "She called me out to the center today to tell me she's been thinking. She's been talking with a counselor. She hasn't been happy in a long time, she says, and the drinking was just one of the symptoms." He rubbed his tired eyes, carefully lifting his glasses as he did so. "Hell of a time of year for this to happen, huh?"

"Hell of a time," Annabeth agreed. She had nothing else to say—there was nothing else to say—but the compassion and respect in her voice said it all.

"Still..." Gordon soldiered bravely on. "If it makes her better, right? If off-loading me and the kids is what it takes for her to get better..." He faltered for a moment. "I wonder what I could have done..."

Here, at least, Annabeth could help. "Nothing," she told him firmly. "You can't be accountable for anyone's actions but your own. Your wife wants to leave the family—that's her choice, and you could be the most wonderful husband in the world, and it still wouldn't change her mind." Tentatively, she reached out and squeezed his arm.

"Jeez, Annabeth," came Stacy's dry voice behind them. "Why don't you wait for the divorce papers to get signed?"

"Help me," Annabeth said through gritted teeth.

It was, thankfully, enough to break the moment and for both Annabeth and Gordon to resume their normal demeanors. Gordon cleared his throat, cast a sympathetic look at Annabeth, and spoke to Stacy.  
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Come on back with me, and we'll get this show on the road."

They followed him through the MCU bullpen, weaving their way around the complex maze of cubicles, desks, office machinery, and file boxes. Officers and investigators swarmed all around, none of them pausing long enough to glance at the two females accompanying the Commissioner. Apparently there was enough crime around Gotham for everyone to have something to keep them occupied.

The Commissioner unlocked his office and led them in. Hastily he cleared file boxes from the two chairs facing his desk, and motioned for the two females to sit down. In the time that it took Annabeth and Stacy to settle themselves, Gordon had switched from defeated father and husband to competent and driven Commissioner. Scarcely had they sat themselves down when he launched into the updates that would inform Stacy of her future.

"Boy-o is going before a grand jury on Monday for his indictment; at that point, the prosecution's going to start aggressively building their case against him. Up until then, we're scrambling to get all the information we can to connect Boy-o and the Arrows, and implicate as many of the Archers as possible." Gordon glanced at Annabeth, and she knew that they were both thinking of Trinity, the "other women" that were being brought in, and the Batman. So much relied so heavily on the right timing of things; what if the key players in the Arrows were implicated before they could time the rescue? If the Arrows found out Gordon was tightening the noose around their neck, christ only knew what would happen to the women. And what if Trinity got in more heavily than she could handle?_Dammit, _things needed to happen fast.

Gordon was still talking. "...that point, the prosecution's going to be working with you, Stacy. That's when things could get tricky; we need to start finalizing arrangements for your name change and witness protection."

No response. Stacy simply managed to look bored to tears.

"Excuse her, Commissioner. She forgot to take her anti-asshole meds this morning." Annabeth managed to simultaneously shoot Stacy a dirty look at the same time as she ignored Gordon's expression of surprise. "Stacy, here's how this is going to work. Once we get the prosecution up-to-date on your statements, Gordon's going to need to put you into a safe location, probably far removed from Gotham. There are still going to be a hell of a lot of people that want to see you dead, and some of them will want to kill you just for the fun of it. So you'll go into hiding until the trial, at which point you'll resurface. Now, I know this couldn't be less riveting for you, but I don't give a damn, and I'm sure that if you don't start being a little more cooperative, Gordon will be perfectly happy to work with me to place you in an all-girl Catholic boarding school. I'm pretty sure there's a really good once in rural Illinois. Possibly Nebraska."

This made Stacy listen. She looked at Gordon. "Are you guys serious?"

Gordon shrugged. "How do you feel about prairies?"

"They've got chipmunks, too, out there." Annabeth grinned evilly.

Stacy sighed. "Shit."

It was an expression of defeat, and Annabeth recognized it as such. She nodded. "I'll head out to the lobby, and let you two start discussing details."

As she rose from her seat, she glanced down at her still-flat belly and wondered, briefly, if her child would one day be that much of an adolescent twit. Knowing her sorry luck, it was more than likely going to happen, especially considering how awful she had been at that age. And as Annabeth contemplated this, another realization stopped her cold.

Her child.

It was the first time she had thought of it as that, a living, growing organism, rather than an enormous complication and a not-entirely-welcome miracle.

_Her child._

Well, _their _child, actually, although it wasn't clear yet how much of "their" there would be. That, too, was a frightening complication on a number of levels, but at the moment, that was not even on Annabeth's radar. Somehow, against all odds, Bruce had gotten her pregnant.

The bastard had good swimmers, she'd give him that.

A baby. A child. She was going to be a mother. It was a dizzying thought, and not one that she had entirely processed up until now. And then another thought, as unwelcome as it was unlikely, niggled its way into her head. What if Bruce Wayne entertained the same sense of wonder and amazement? What if he was contemplating a life as a father? What if...

_Christ. Pregnancy hormones, making me crazy already. Guess I'm in for several more months of this._

_If I'm lucky._

And as she glanced back down at her body—her fickle, traitorous, not entirely hale-and-hearty body—she had to admit that she had a long way to go before the baby was truly safe within her. So much could happen...

In that moment, she never felt more alone or terrified.

But the thing about wool-gathering in a busy police unit was that such nonsense wouldn't be tolerated for long. A few desks away, a young administrative assistant dropped a large box of files, which thumped loudly as the box struck the floor and all of the files scattered. It was enough to prod Annabeth back onto her way through the bullpen and out into the lobby once more, where she could once again be alone to process her thoughts.

No such luck.

Slouched deep into one of the benches, with her endless legs and her enormous feet thrust far out before her, sat Barbara Gordon, Jr. She appeared to be lost in thought, but as Annabeth emerged from the bullpen, she straightened up attentively enough. When she saw it was Annabeth, she slouched back down. "Oh. I was hoping you were my dad."

"No luck there, I'm afraid." Annabeth settled herself back down onto the bench. "He's meeting with one of my clients right now."

"I'm in no rush," Barbara smiled. "My semester just finished, so I've got a few weeks to kill. Something tells me I'm going to be doing a lot of chasing my little brother and sister around. They're hellions."

The great thing about Barbara Gordon, Annabeth was beginning to see, was that you could wind her up and she'd just _go. _Sunny of disposition and uninhibited in language and personality, she could—and did—maintain a steady stream of chatter that, while quite intelligent and even rather amusing, didn't require much response. It gave Annabeth a few moments to collect her thoughts.

"...here I am, running on as usual. Enough about my bullshit...what about you and your client?"

_Damn._ "Sorry?"

"Your client," Barbara repeated. "At least, that's what you called her. Although she looks a little young to be employing you."

"It's a courtesy term." Annabeth studied Barbara's alert face and realized the younger woman was genuinely interested. "I work at a halfway house here in Gotham; that girl is one of the residents there."

"Must have committed a pretty big crime to get my dad involved."

"What?" Annabeth was temporarily confused. "Oh. No, your dad is...ah...helping with something else concerning her."

"Oh. I see." Barbara had been in and around law enforcement long enough to know that there was usually a damned good reason for vague answers, and she also knew not to pursue it. "So what's the halfway house like?"

"Safe Haven? It's just one of many in the city, but we're one of the newest. We're usually filled up, especially around this time of year."

"Who comes there?"

"Teenaged girls, scared wives and mothers, and their children, with a few single women—usually recovering junkies, or homeless, or prostitutes."

"Or all three."

"Or all three."

Barbara glanced back towards the doors leading into the bullpen and the scurrying cops and problems within. "Well, one thing's for certain, you have job security. Gotham's probably always going to produce more people who need your help."

"And _we're_ always going to need help, too." Annabeth agreed glumly. "Money, political support, manpower, materials...it's always something or another to keep the place afloat in a city of sharks."

"'Sharks'?" Barbara echoed. "Who'd want to eat up a battered woman's shelter?"

Visions of Mayor Garcia danced in Annabeth's head. So too did any number of a dozen men who had gotten on the wrong end of Annabeth's anger and zeal. "Plenty."

"Well..." Barbara tilted her head in consideration. "You need manpower? Like volunteers?"

"Yup. Always. Or donations. Got money?"

"Not enough to help you, I think. But I _can _volunteer."

Annabeth eyed the eyebrow piercing and the hint of a tattoo that crept its way up from the collar of Barbara's sweater and wound its way around the base of her neck. "What can you do?"

"Self defense."

All doubts flew out the window. "Sold."

Barbara grinned. "Thought so."

Just then, the doors opened and Stacy slouched out from the bullpen, followed by Gordon. He took in Annabeth and his daughter and smiled briefly. "Hello, there."

"Hey, Pops."

Stacy was taking in Barbara. While she didn't say anything, she was clearly more impressed with Barbara than any other adult she had encountered lately. Seeing this, Gordon seized the opportunity.

"Barbara, would you mind keeping an eye on Stacy? I have to consult with Annabeth in private."

"Sure," Barbara agreed amiably, clearly not having any idea what she was in for.

"Swell." Stacy said this sarcastically as she threw herself back down on the bench beside Barbara. While she was more tolerant of Barbara than most of the lame people she encountered, she wasn't about to become bosom buddies with her. "Can't wait."

"Shut it, punk." Barbara said this indifferently.

Annabeth and Gordon glanced at each other and retreated into the bullpen.

* * *

Back in Gordon's office, Annabeth settled herself into one of the chairs facing his desk. "Seems like I just left here."

"Get comfortable. You'll probably be in here a lot before this is all over."

"You're probably right. I'll just count myself lucky if it's not because I get to be held legally responsible for Stacy and her shenanigans."

"Don't worry, no chance of that." Gordon frowned. "But 'shenanigans'? What sort of trouble is she getting herself into?"

"Nothing too awful...yet. She takes off a few times a week, comes back smelling like pot smoke. Won't say where she's going, or how she's scoring it." Annabeth shook her head in grudging admiration. "If I weren't so annoyed, I'd be impressed with her resourcefulness. She certainly has quite a few escape acts up her sleeve."

"Hmm. Perhaps we shouldn't let her be spending time with my daughter."

"Why? Barbara was a trouble-maker?"

"Very discreetly, sure. Sneaking out, piercings, getting into the liquor cabinet, that type of thing. But she rarely got caught, she was always respectful, and she always made good grades. I couldn't complain too much."

"It'll be interesting to see where she ends up in life. Probably some sort of high-level computer systems hacker." Annabeth steered the conversation into more relevant waters. "So...where are we at with everything else?"

Gordon smiled as she cut through the chase. No bullshit about Annabeth, that was for sure. "I'm working with Diana over at INS and Sean and Abilene at the FBI Gotham Field Office. They all sound amazingly receptive about working with the women we get from the Arrows. Diana's already starting to prep the paperwork, and she's poised to contact several advocacy groups. Sounds like she might be trying to pull strings to shortlist the applications of those who want to stay in the U.S."

Annabeth let out a low whistle. "This has to be a first."

"I'm pretty sure they all knew who I was working with. No one wants to be on the bad side of the girlfriend of Bruce Wayne." Seeing her suddenly stony expression, Gordon hurried on. "There's one thing, though. Short of the city jail, there's no place for the PD to stow these women once we get them out of the Narrows. We'll be able to line up semi-permanent places fairly quickly, but we'll need temporary places."

Inwardly, Annabeth groaned. She had had a feeling this would happen, and at the worst time of year, too. Safe Haven only had three empty spots at present, and god only knew how the other houses were faring. Still, no need to add that concern to Gordon's furrowed brow. She nodded. "We'll figure something out." Already, her mind was leaping ahead to places to contact, favors to call in. "So, what about getting these girls out? Where are we on that?"

"You know as much as me." Gordon gestured helplessly. "Waiting to hear back from our source. We can't do a raid before the contraband is in place."

"Better hurry up, that's all I have to say." Annabeth looked beyond Gordon's shoulder to the large windows she was facing. Outside, the weather was turning threatening, with a stony-grey sky and a sharp wind. Sleet was forecast for later.

"Why? You got somewhere else better to be?"

"Maybe," Annabeth said cryptically. "A lot of stuff is up in the air right now, but there's a possibility that very soon I won't be in Gotham any longer."

Gordon had been around long enough not to betray the surprise he felt. From what little he knew of Annabeth de Burgh, he wouldn't have pegged her as the type to ever leave Gotham. In a twisted way, she was as loyal to their warped city as a battered woman was to her twenty-plus year marriage_. Bad analogy. _"Time for something new?"

There was an oddly vulnerable look in her face as she focused away from the weather and back onto Gordon. "Maybe. I'm slowly creeping up towards forty, and this is the only place I've ever known. It hasn't exactly given me a lot of joy. And in fact, Gotham's taken a lot from me." She paused, than added, "Or maybe I've just given a little too freely. Either way...let's just say I'm feeling the need to get out of here before Gotham can get anything else from me."

In the lobby, Barbara and Stacy were actually involved in a fairly in-depth conversation. Both Annabeth and Gordon watched, amused, as Barbara quickly took off several outer layers to display an intricate tattoo that covered the majority of her shoulders.

"Dude, that's _kickin'," _they heard Stacy say wistfully as they walked back in. Barbara looked over at Annabeth and gave a slightly impish grin as she began to pull her sweater back on over her tight tee. Stacy gave Annabeth a far more hostile look. "Don't you two have anything else to talk about? I don't want to leave yet."

"Don't worry, Stacy," Barbara smiled. "I'm going to be back at your place soon enough."

"Really?"

"Really. I might be volunteering."

Beside Annabeth, Gordon rolled his eyes heavenward.

"So you'll be able to see me more then," Barbara added helpfully.

"Or maybe I'll just take off and find you."

Three pairs of adult eyes, Barbara's included, turned and stared at her, until Stacy slumped back in defeat. "Fine. I'll just wait." And as the three older people released their bated breath, they didn't hear her muttered addition. _"Maybe."_


	41. Chapter 41

True to the meteorologists' grim reports, a storm system worked its way into Gotham by nightfall. The short day ended even more quickly than normal; nary a single ray of sunlight had managed to break through the dense grey clouds, and even more, darker clouds were piling into the sky. Gothamites scurrying home from work cast occasional, anxious glances into the sky, hoping against hope that they would make the commute home before the nasty weather set upon them.

In most cases, they were lucky. It was almost 9 PM when the storm finally hit, bringing plummeting temperatures and a stinging lash of hostile sleet. By that point, most people were stashed away indoors, cozily sheltered from the worst of the elements, preparing for the impending winter holidays. And so there were really very few people left on the streets to witness those unfortunate enough to catch the brunt of another Gotham winter.

It was a cruel—and yet heartbreakingly typical—welcome to the caravan of unfortunates who arrived in Gotham that evening, led by Donzetti. One by one, the young women were prodded and yelled out of the vans that had been their home for the last week, and together they huddled against the freezing cold as the goons emerged from the sinister, dark buildings and Donzetti stood silently, threateningly in the background. Even more unnervingly, two other men joined him, and all three stood there, seemingly impervious to the weather, and certainly indifferent to the girls' suffering..

"Get 'em inside," Donzetti said, sharply, to the goons. He then turned to le Blanc and Seth Percival, who had turned out to see the delivery of the goods. Donzetti couldn't help but to preen a little—he _had _picked out a particularly lovely selection. His particular favorite, Zhao, was strategically huddled in the background, trying to avoid being noticed, just as he had instructed her to do. No doubt she was not thrilled to be his hand-picked favorite, but every smart whore knew which side her bread was buttered on. Soon enough, he'd pull her from the stash house and install her somewhere a little nicer. At least for a while

Silently, the three men watched as the cold, frightened females were herded into the stash house, and then they followed after them. But whereas the girls and women were directed upstairs, to the colder, damper, bleaker environs, the men simply headed down the hall, to the warm, orderly, brightly lit room where they did business. It was reasonably well-appointed, this room—certainly not anything in which one could entertain an ambassador, but the comfortable, leather armchairs, climate control, and well-stocked liquor cabinet ensured that no one would be miserable.

And no one was. le Blanc immediately headed to the liquor bar, where he poured out ample amounts of scotch. "I'm guessing you've no desire for vodka?" he asked rhetorically to Donzetti as he brought the glasses to his compatriots. He winked at Donzetti. "No more Russian drinks, right?" Together, the three of them clinked glasses.

Donzetti belched appreciatively, oblivious to the look of disgust Seth Percival cast him. "Oh, that's good. Damned good to be back in civilization."

"I gather traveling isn't your forte." le Blanc phrased this as a statement, rather than a question. "I'm grateful that you went; I needed someone I trust implicitly to get the lay of the land over there. Now that that's done, we can pass that burden on to Trinity."

"Speaking of, I need to head out so I can visit her. We got things we need to talk about, and anyway, I need to give her information about what she'll be doing over there...pass the info along while it's fresh in my head." There was no reason to add that, while he was moving on to greener pastures, he also intended to have a farewell graze in Trinity's fields.

"Before you leave, we need to discuss some things." le Blanc motioned the two men to seat themselves in the armchairs. "We need to make a few plans."

"What's that?" Donzetti cradled his drink and looked rather bored.

"Getting that little bitch out of Safe Haven," Seth spoke up, speaking to Donzetti directly for the first time that evening.

"What bitch?" Donzetti looked from le Blanc to Seth. "What are you talking about?"

"There _was_ a witness the night that Boy-o killed that slut. She's stashed away at Safe Haven. That de Burgh girl got her hands on her before we could verify anything." Of course, it was _because _Annabeth de Burgh had stashed her at Safe Haven that they knew about Stacy, but that was besides the point. Nonetheless, Seth smiled as he thought of the poetic justice of it all.

Donzetti shook his head. "Should have known that damned place was in on this."

"I think on one level, we probably suspected," le Blanc nodded. "It was impossible to get confirmation, though, until Seth scrounged up some information."

Donzetti nodded at Seth. "Good job. This will make things easier for us."

"Indeed. We need to take care of her as soon as possible. Last I heard, Boy-o hadn't confessed, and if the chief witness is dead, the case against him—and the Arrows—weakens considerably." le Blanc glanced over at Seth. "Did your source give you any ideas about the best way to get to her?"

A second does not seem like a long time, but it went on long enough for certain memories to flash through Seth's head. Donna, promising to turn Stacy over to him within a couple of weeks; Donna demanding that no one else at Safe Haven be hurt. And of course, the knowledge of his own pressing agenda.

Seth shook his head. "She just said that Stacy was there at Safe Haven. My guess is that we need to do this soon."

"'We?'" Donzetti echoed suspiciously.

le Blanc cocked his head with sudden interest.

Seth Percival smiled, and it had a chill of midwinter to it. "Yes, we. Us. I'll be joining you." His smile disappeared, and his eyes turned hard. "I've got a score to settle."

Scores to settle were nothing new in the Gotham mob, and le Blanc and Donzetti knew better than to ask. Together, the three men began to plan.

* * *

The storm was fierce, but fortunately brief. Two and a half hours later, the worst of the weather had slackened off. The winds had died down, the sleet had ceased, the temperature had plummeted, and the city was swathed in a bewitching silence that only came when snow was imminent. In fact, the first flakes were beginning to fall as Donzetti arrived at Trinity's condo.

She had been expecting him—had spent the last three evenings at home, preparing for the possibility of him showing up. And so as Donzetti let himself in, he saw her, sitting blamelessly on her living room room floor, sorting out the Christmas ornaments she had so recently and drunkenly purchased.

"Well, ho ho ho." He said this jovially, but they could both tell that his heart was not in it. "This is what you've been doing since I've been gone?"

"Shopping? Yes." Trinity got to her feet. "And eating."

"I can see that." Donzetti eyed her body, which, while certainly still fashionably slender, had put on a few curves in his absence. In that moment, he felt distinctly less guilty about cutting things off with Trinity. He had distinct preferences when it came to his women. But still, he was a man. "How about a welcome-home kiss?"

Afterward, as they lay in Trinity's luxurious bed, gazing up into the darkness, Trinity spoke up. "That was the last time, wasn't it?" Her voice sounded sad, but inside, she was silently praying to a possibly non-existent god. _Please, please, please let it be the last time._

Thankfully, god was listening. "Yeah, that was the last time." Donzetti sat up and began searching for the clothing he had so lustfully discarded. "I think we had a good run of it."

Trinity carefully arranged her face into a very disappointed expression. "Doesn't what I want matter?"

It was not a question that Donzetti could answer truthfully, and to his credit, he did not attempt to lie. "We've got something else in mind for you," he said instead, as though offering a consolation prize. "Did le Blanc tell you about it?"

"He did." Trinity sighed, sat up, and pulled the sheet around her. "I'm interested. It'll keep me busy, I guess. So...tell me about it. What should I expect? How many did you bring back? What was it like?"

Ironic, how quietly her "affair" with Donzetti ended, especially given the dramatic misery its beginning had induced in her. He was simply relieved that Trinity's natural intellect and grace had kicked in and seized upon the diversion he had offered, and she was secretly too relieved to do anything but listen to him talk while she silently prayed to whatever god was on duty that day that he would never rut in her bed again.

Apparently, some deity was actually doing its job. Thirty minutes later, Donzetti was dressed and had already mentally moved on from the concept of her as his lover. Now she was a colleague of sorts, and he was eager to show her the logistics of her new job. Trinity dutifully slipped into this new role as dressed in her warmest clothes and mentally steeled herself for what she was about to see. It was clear that Donzetti wanted to bring her back to the stash house and introduce her to her next career, and show her what he had been up to. No doubt he also wanted to discreetly show off Trinity's replacement.

Inwardly, Trinity sighed and prepared for what was no doubt going to be a very difficult night.

* * *

All afternoon, Annabeth had been anticipating the foul weather. She was a Gothamite, born and bred, but it didn't mean that she relished the entirely predictable clouds, chill, and sleet; she simply _dealt. _Turned her collar up, tightened her scarf, and got on with it, as it were. She had ushered Stacy back to Safe Haven, rushed through the last of her work there, and managed to get out early _and_avoid the chance to encounter Donna's probing questions—a double triumph. Ever since the Christmas charity gala, Donna had been looking askance to her, expecting information and answers about the predicament Annabeth had found herself in. Far from having any answers, Annabeth was only left with a thousand more questions, and so had spent a fair amount of time avoiding her boss. The day of reckoning would come, no doubt, but it wouldn't be on this nasty day.

The relief of having dodged Donna had infused an unusual excitement, almost ebullience, into Annabeth's blood. As she headed toward the subway which would take her back to her home in Bordertown, she actually ducked into a gourmet grocery store and purchased the makings for a cozy night in—Belgian hot chocolate, scented candles, some ready-made delicacies from the deli case, even a bouquet of amaryllis. She cringed when she got the final tally, and thought briefly of the time-bomb of responsibility which was gestating within her. And then, _Screw it, _she thought angrily. _Ten years of denial and playing it safe got me into this mess anyway, why bother keeping it up?_

So she arrived home forty dollars poorer, but with an armful luxuries to sweeten the winter evening. And so, as the sleet began to pound the city, as the temperature dropped, Annabeth was indifferent to it; she merely concentrated on relieving the tension and stress which had built up within her during the day.

Four hours later, she had achieved her goal. A long, steamy shower, warm flannel pajamas, a hot cup of cocoa, and some gentle music were certainly an effective defense against the wild weather of Gotham and her own emotional burdens. She realized this as she burrowed under a quilt on the couch and gazed around her living room. Jed and Wurzel were curled up beside her; Jed was sound asleep, but Wurzel gazed out at the candle which burned on the coffee table. Its flame reflected like a sinister jewel in her yellow eyes.

_Not good enough. _Suddenly, Annabeth didn't want to sit around any more; she wanted to _do _something. Moving carefully so as not to disturb the animals (_shit, what was she going to do with them when the baby came?)_ she came out from under the quilt, headed into her bedroom...

...and ten minutes later, dragged out a three-foot-long box.

She had only put up her Christmas tree once or twice; most years, she simply forgot, or was too busy. And even if she wasn't busy, it was even less likely that she was infused with any sort of Christmas spirit. But tonight, and this year, something was going to be a little different.

Hell, who was she kidding? _Everything _was different.

Soon enough, the pathetic little tree was assembled. Wurzel immediately began chewing on the plastic needles as Annabeth hauled out two small boxes of ornaments and began to unpack them. Being _in the mood _for Christmas was not really an option; Annabeth was rarely in the mood for anything. But she did have a determination to get things done.

So she was getting things done.

By the time the sleet had ceased and given way to the more gentle snow, Annabeth's home was well on its way to transformation. What it was transforming into, however, was another story.

In dismay, she stared at her living room. What had been a fairly orderly and clean space somehow ended up being taken over by crumpled up newspaper, dustbunnies, and more than a few dead spiders. In addition to this, Wurzel had gotten into a losing battle with the tree, but not before taking out several dozen needles, which now joined ranks with the other mess. Half the lights on the tree were burnt out, and it was questionable as to whether or not the remaining half would cause a fuse to be blown.

Annabeth sighed and flopped down onto the couch. "What was I thinking?" she asked Jed, who had sleepily been dyeing the proceedings. "I should be packing things up, throwing things out...not _un_packing."

As soon as the thought occurred to her, she sprung up again and disappeared into the bedroom. For the next ten minutes, there were a series of terrific bumps and crashes as, one by one, Annabeth hauled out of the closet a pile of boxes which had languished there since she had moved in. Her bedroom was tiny—_how on earth was she going to fit a crib in there? Or a changing table? Well, maybe she'd be out of here before it mattered_—so she dragged the boxes out to the living room.

The mess grew exponentially.

Wurzel, curious as ever, made it a point to investigate, and ended up perched atop the pile, closely watching her mistress. It wasn't the first time the cat had witnessed Annabeth behaving in such a frenzied manner, nor was it the first time Annabeth had voiced her thoughts to the cat, but there was something a little different...a fierce yet aimless determination emanated from Annabeth. She was going somewhere with this project, she just didn't know where.

So intent was she in her project of re-cluttering that she almost didn't hear the light rapping on her door.

Wurzel growled.

Annabeth groaned.

* * *

Not for the first time in recent months, Annabeth allowed herself a brief moment to fantasize about a non-Gotham life. A life where she would have been in bed already, asleep, possibly even sleeping _with _someone; where she didn't have to worry about unwelcome nocturnal visitors; a life where she would rise in the morning not feeling a constant, nagging pull to do more, be more, give more to that ruthlessly draining city.

What would a life like that be like? Annabeth didn't know which was more unnerving: that she continued to ask herself this question, or that she could never visualize an answer. However, none of this addressed the fact that unpleasant reality was currently at her threshold, seeking admission. Reluctantly, she abandoned her misguided attempts at seasonal decoration and headed to the front door. A glance through the peephole confirmed her suspicions; Trinity was at the door.

Which meant the Batman would be close behind.

_I'll burn that bridge when I get to it, _Annabeth told herself grimly as she undid the various locks and bolts on her door. _God only knows how he's going to get in this time._

As soon as she opened the door to Trinity, she had her answer.

"How the hell does he do that?" Trinity demanded.

"Who does what?" Annabeth was confused. And then she realized Trinity was gazing over her shoulder, into her home. Already knowing what she was going to see, Annabeth turned around and took in the Batman—_Bruce? Which should I think of him as?_ _Shit, this is awkward_—standing in her living room.

Rolling her eyes, Annabeth held the door open wider for Trinity to come in, and was grateful when her guest wasted no time in hustling inside. No need for the neighbors to see the company Annabeth kept...although it was hard to tell which they would object to more, the vigilante or the call girl. A question to ponder for another night.

Slowly, Annabeth turned from the door to face her company. To their credit, neither of them remarked on the chaos of the surroundings.

In fact, no one was making any remarks at all.

"This is an awkward silence," Annabeth said finally. "What's doing?" She shifted a pile of tangled garland from the couch to the floor, and took its place. Wurzel immediately hopped from her perch onto the armrest and delicately stepped down onto her lap. It was a cozy scene, except for the hulking black lump that seemed to take up half the room. Even knowing who and what the Batman was didn't change the fact that he appeared frightening, threatening, and preternaturally larger than life.

Finally, Trinity spoke. "The girls are all there. They're in place."Even saying these few words seemed to release an immense burden from her; her tense shoulders slumped. She glanced from Annabeth to the Batman, clearly expecting one or both of them to take the information, process, and plot. Her part in this was almost done...wasn't it?

Unwillingly, Annabeth felt her gaze drawn to the Batman. Despite the mask, she could tell he was staring at her intently, awaiting her response. It was as though he were respecting her authority within her own space...well, perhaps there was something to be said for having intimate knowledge of Gotham's vigilante.

This odd thought was not particularly helpful to the situation, but fortunately, it was fleeting. Unconsciously, Annabeth nodded as she focused. That was the signal the Batman needed—the final step, the final chance for air before they plunged in deep.

"How many women?" he growled.

"Women?" Trinity snorted. "_Girls. _I'd be amazed if there's anyone there who could legally drink. One or two looked—" here she stopped, remembering the frightened eyes of three girls who had been clustered together. She had a disturbing suspicion that they had not yet reached puberty. "Let's put it like this—they'll be needing child psychologists."

Without realizing she had done so, Annabeth had wrapped her arms protectively around her middle.

"_How many?" _This had come out more harshly than the Batman had intended, but he had seen Annabeth's unknowing gesture, and it had triggered a painfully human response within him.

"Around forty, give or take a couple, plus the other girls that were already there."

"How were they?" This came from Annabeth.

"Cold, hungry. Scared senseless. In some cases, already injured." Here Trinity paused for a moment. "I think some of them need medical attention. And I'm guessing, given how the Arrows and Donzetti were talking, the breaking-in process has already started."

Trinity didn't specify what she meant by that, and neither the Batman nor Annabeth needed to ask. What went unspoken was the observation that the Arrows had not wasted any time. In some ways, the damage had already been done.

But they needed to move fast to keep the damage to a minimum.

_Enough already. _Annabeth forced herself to look over to the Batman. "We need to get moving. Tomorrow I'm going to contact Gordon and press him to get the lead out regarding INS. You need to contact him tomorrow night and coordinate a raid—but something that's reasonably safe for the women. Our primary objective is to keep them alive." Her tone brooked no challenge. "I know you want to take down the Arrows, and I want to skin those fuckers alive, but right now, the women are our type priority. _We keep them safe."_

The Batman wisely remained silent. Annabeth had hit the nail right on the head—he wanted to end the reign of one more mob of worthless thugs, low-lifes, and goons, but at the moment, the safety of the women—hell, the girls, by the sound of it—trumped everything.

"I'm going to be spending the next few days at the stash house," Trinity informed them. "I think Donzetti expects me to break them, mentally and emotionally, while they're working on the physical side of things." Her calm demeanor, suddenly, began to crumble, as she ran a shaking hand through he hair. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?" she asked rhetorically. "I'm a career call-girl, dammit, not a madame. And now they want me to become a fucking slave overseer."

Annabeth nodded. "You don't want to do anything to damage these girls any more."

"Exactly." Trinity paused, then continued. "Hell, I don't claim to be a particularly good person, but jesus, not only do I not want to damage these girls any more, I want to help them. Like any normal person—give them help, or food, or comfort. This runs counter to every instinct I have as a normal human being. I honestly don't know if I can go in there and act like I want to crush them, and actually take measures to do that—just to keep the trust of the Arrows."

"So don't."

Both women turned to the Batman.

"Donzetti and Le Blanc may be halfway intelligent people, but that's it. They're as much brains as the Arrows get. And they're not going to question you. Tell them that it's important to gain the trust of the girls as part of the process. Earn their trust, then be cruel later. That's how you truly break someone."

Silence descended once more upon the little group as they contemplated the Batman's words. Realizing that he had an unusual advantage—it was rare for both Annabeth and Trinity to be quiet at once—the Batman pressed forward. "By the time you're ready to move onto the 'cruelty' part of the scheme, it will be over. We're going to raid in a few days, tops. So don't bother selling your soul."

Trinity turned to Annabeth. "He ever say this much to you before?"

"Ahhh..." Annabeth searched for an honest response, but before she could answer truthfully or otherwise, Trinity answered her own question. "Probably not. Sounds like he goes down on a food processor on a regular basis."

The Batman had cut his teeth on a woman snarkier than Trinity, and could not be provoked. He ignored her comment, and Annabeth's corresponding smirk. "What else can you tell us about the stash house?"

"There's about five groups of girls, each group in their own room. There's eight or nine in each group...from what I saw earlier, there's two groups on the second floor, three groups on the third. At least two men are in charge of each group. They're not always _with_them, but they...I don't know, keep an eye on them. Keep them in line, give them food, whatever's needed. Plus, I saw about half a dozen more Archers in the building, and I'm guessing they're the security for the building itself."

For the next half hour, the Batman ruthlessly pumped Trinity for every detail she could recall—everything from names of the Archers to descriptions of the building, down to the possible windows in the holding rooms where the girls were being kept. He didn't stop there—he drilled Trinity about her recollections of the girls, a catalog of possible injuries and ailments that she may have noticed. He was relentless in his interrogation, and Trinity held up remarkably well, but eventually, she was done.

"I've told you everything I know." Trinity held up a perfectly manicured hand to forestall him from asking any more questions. "I know you need as much information as possible for this raid to go well, but for now, I'm tapped. I'm going back tomorrow, and I'll see what else I observe, but for now, this is all I've got. I can leave a message with Annabeth tomorrow with more information, and she can get it to you."

The Batman nodded grimly. He didn't like it, but he saw the sense in it. "I'll talk to Gordon tomorrow and I'll be back here by tomorrow night. Give her more info by then."

Trinity cast him a foul look. "Did they teach you the meaning of the words 'please' and 'thank you' in Vigilante School?" She tightened the sash on her coat and pulled her hat down low over her brow. "I'm exhausted. I'll expect to hear from...someone...tomorrow." She was resigned,of course, but her tone made it clear, without doubt, that she was not thrilled.

"You're leaving?" Annabeth's suspicious instincts kicked into overdrive. "Please, _be safe." _Even as she said this, she glanced over at the Batman. He nodded.

"I'll make sure she gets home safe."

"Wonderful," Trinity sighed. "A freak following me home." Still, there was no hiding the relief in her eyes.

Annabeth walked Trinity back down to the entrance of the building. They made an odd couple, alright—no matter what unremarkable getup she donned, there was no hiding the fact that Trinity was a striking woman. And next to her, dressed in her ratty pajamas and the overcoat she had hastily thrown on over them, Annabeth felt very short, very unglamorous, very frumpy. There were very few logical explanations for two such disparate women to be keeping company together.

Fortunately, Annabeth lived in a part of Gotham where people were inclined to mind their own business. It was a working class neighborhood, and god knew most people had enough problems to be thoroughly disinclined to borrow trouble from elsewhere. Who the short, fierce workaholic woman from Unit 1428 chose to spend her time with could not have been of less concern to the surrounding occupants.

Come to think of it, given this level of indifference, her current home perhaps wasn't the best environment to be raising her impending child in.

Annabeth pushed that thought to the back of her head as she and Trinity reached the front doors. They faced each other, and the serious expressions each saw mirrored in the other face was almost comical. Annabeth actually cracked a grim smile.

"It'll be over, soon," she assured Trinity. "It has to be. Gordon's tightening the noose, probably even as we speak. Just learn what you can—and don't get caught. Don't get injured. And don't do anything that feels wrong."

Trinity gave her an odd look.

"You'll know what I mean if it comes down to it." Annabeth gave her a gentle shove on the shoulder. "Now go home. You'll be safe—he's out there, waiting."

She didn't need to say who _he _was. Trinity nodded. "I'll be in touch tomorrow evening." She gave a resolute nod. "Good night."

"Good night."

Annabeth stood and watched as Trinity disappeared into the bitterly cold night. So far as Annabeth could see, there was no one else out—it was too cold, and too late. But Gotham could be a vicious bitch with a way of hiding all manner of vile lowlifes in her petticoats, and at this late point in the game, it was criminally stupid to risk Trinity. So long as the Batman was tailing her, she'd be safe.

It was also criminially stupid that no one—not Annabeth, or Gordon, or the Batman—didn't pause to consider that perhaps Trinity and Stacy were not the only ones at risk.

* * *

Back in her condo, all was silent and still, as though no one had ever disturbed her evening. Jed had resumed his nap, and Wurzel had managed to get her way into one of the boxes of ornaments. By the sounds that were now coming from the box, there wasn't a doubt that the enterprising cat was making short work of whatever spiders had taken refuge within.

The entire place was a wreck. _And_ it was horrifically late. _And _she had had a long day ahead of her tomorrow. There was no other solution than the obvious one—stepping carefully around the boxes and messes, Annabeth began to prepare for bed. The lights went off, the doors were locked—not that it would do any good. Annabeth strongly suspected that she hadn't had the last of her visitors that evening.

The night wore on, and Annabeth dozed lightly, expectantly, with unformed half-dreams flitting through her subconscious and keeping her from sinking too deeply into rest. She had just commenced a vision of Gordon presenting the Batman with a guard dog—a chihuahua which had a strangely deep _woof—_when she woke up enough to realize that it was no rat dog barking, but rather her own Jed.

Sighing, she sat up in bed, reached over, and turned on the light by her bed. Jed instantly stopped barking as he saw that his mistress was alert, and so commenced with greeting the disturbance.

_Her fucking dopey dog was trying to be buddies with the goddamned Batman._

"When this is all over, I'm getting a pitbull," Annabeth said rhetorically.

He was lurking in the doorway to her room, silent as ever. And then, surprisingly, he spoke. "Don't you think we should talk in a more appropriate place? The living room?"

Annabeth snatched her watch from the bedstand and squinted at it. "It's three-fucking-thirty in the morning. I'm exhausted and I'm staying right the fuck here. You can go talk wherever the hell you want."

"Okay then." The Batman crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. The wood creaked ominously.

"And another thing..." Annabeth was gaining speed. "I'm not talking to you any more until you take off that stupid mask. I know who you are, so right now, I feel like I'm in a cartoon. It's not necessary. So lose it, already."

The Batman was, simply, astounded. And then, a random voice of reason in his head pointed out, _This is_ _the need for secrecy. When people find out, they have power. They can call the shots._

"It's _my _home. I say what goes." Annabeth was sounding truculent now.

At first, the Batman didn't move. His mind was racing, and his body was unwilling to follow the orders Annabeth had issued. The instincts of the vigilante were screaming at him to leave this place, remove himself from this scenario; the rational and fair voice of Bruce was pointing out that Annabeth had every right to demand this, particularly as she knew about him.

And even more particularly, since she was bearing his child.

"Plus, it's just weird."

Slowly, slowly, he brought his gloved hand up to his head. He hesitated.

Annabeth held her breath.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he tugged off his cowl.

Wurzel meowed querulously. Annabeth exhaled.

They looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, but for what could have only been half a minute. Annabeth's sleep-blearied eyes met Bruce's blue ones, staring out at her from his exposed, strangely vulnerable face which hovered over his suited, armored body. There was inky black war-paint under his eyes, which she had noticed before was part of the costume. Bruce remembered it at about the same time she did, and began to rub it away. Annabeth regarded him silently for a moment.

"This is unique."

He didn't say anything.

They continued to look at each other for another moment.

Finally, Annabeth again took the initiative. "Why did you come back?"

Bruce broke his gaze from her and turned away. For a moment he contemplated her pets, who were now sniffing his boots. "I don't...I don't know."

But he did know. It had felt utterly ludicrous, interacting with Annabeth as the Batman, knowing that she knew who and what he was. And removing his mask was a way—perhaps the only way—to make it even, to make it more sane. Anything else felt...wrong. _Did this mean that he wanted her to be part of what he did?_

She watched him. She took in his armor, his gloves, the grey emblem on his chest; she took in the cowl that now hung limply from his hand. She took in his stoic expression, the faint scar under his right eye, the tense, alert posture that he held even now. And she took in the fact that it was Bruce who was staring out at her from the Batman's costume. She knew, instinctively, that she was perhaps the only person, besides Alfred, who had seen both Bruce Wayne and the Batman together, as the whole person.

If he was showing her everything, all the sides of him, all the vulnerabilities, well, she supposed she could do the same.

Annabeth cleared her throat. "Bruce..." She paused, then started again. "Bruce..."

Bruce went absolutely still. Her voice was small, tiny even, timid.

"Bruce, I'm really scared."

She didn't say what it was that she was frightened of, but he didn't need to know. He knew, without being told.

And he was scared, too.

But it wasn't about him. Annabeth sat there, in her bed, pale and small and looking out at him. She expected something of him, that much he knew. But what?

It was as if Annabeth could read his mind. "You're not stupid, Bruce. We're facing something huge...on so many levels. Right now, I'm totally alone. I don't know how to find my way out, and I'm not sure what to do."

After a moment, Bruce spoke, and his voice was not the gravelly growl of the Batman, but the quiet, contemplative voice that, in retrospect, she had come to identify with him in his most genuine moments. "I don't know, either."

When Annabeth responded, her voice was a little stronger. "At least we can be clueless together?"

The invitation was unmistakable.

Slowly, Bruce began to disrobe. Piece by piece, his costume came off—the cape, which fell to the floor with a gentle whisper; the gloves and the gauntlets; the guards and armor from his legs and arms and spine, which he set down more carefully; the utility belt, which he set down with the most tenderness. As he did all of this, Annabeth's eyes darted from him to his equipment and then back to him. She remained silent, and so did he.

Finally, he removed his protective vest, letting it, too, fall to the floor with a heavy-sounding _clank. _All that he remained dressed in was his undersuit. He hesitated for a moment, and then pulled the top portion off.

Annabeth now studied him, taking in his chest, arms, and shoulders. Far from appreciating the incredibly sculpted physique—that much, she had had noted in the seemingly long-ago night at Bellingham—she focused on his imperfections: the atlas of scars which crisscrossed over his body like so many confused, misdirected paths. But for those significant flaws, he would have been a damned near perfect specimen of a male.

He waited.

"We all have our scars," Annabeth said softly. She stretched out her arms, and even in the imperfect light of her bedroom, Bruce could see the pale, whitish scars that ran down her wrists. And then he remembered another scar, and peered at Annabeth's face. The scar near her eye was more difficult to make out, but he still knew it was there—he would never forget what she had told him about what had happened on that long ago night at the club, and the scar would not let either of them forget, either.

And then, some scars weren't visible to the naked eye. But he knew about them all the same.

"We all have our scars," Annabeth said again. Her voice was stronger, firmer this time.

Wordlessly, he moved to the bed. Annabeth shifted over and made room for him.

It was the last chance for him to back out, but there was no question of that. Bruce slowly sat down on the mattress, which predictably sagged under his weight. Nevertheless, he laid down and turned to Annabeth, who simply looked at him.

"I'm scared, too," he told her. And then, some instinct drove him forward—in his own view, he was the protector, and he should try to offer comfort, strength, solutions. But he simply didn't know how. What could he possibly say to Annabeth to make it all right? As the Batman, he could make things right. But as Bruce Wayne, he was at sea. Just a man. A man with billions, perhaps, but he knew as well as anyone that all the money in the world couldn't buy Annabeth perfect health, or resolution to their emotionally-tangled lives, but still—hesitantly, he put his arms around her, and gently guided her back down into a supine position.

Softly he whispered, "We'll figure things out later. But not now."

Annabeth sighed.

Bruce reached over and switched off the lamp. Even in the dark, he could sense Annabeth relaxing. And then, he heard her voice:

"By the way...I think that cowl gives you a double chin."

She could no longer see his face, but she heard the little huff of amusement and felt his lips curl into a tiny smile. And then, not to be outdone, he volleyed back.

"You're a shitty homemaker."

There was no response to this, as he was quite right. She simply smiled and remained still. They simply lay there, offering each other a very chaste comfort. Annabeth settled her head on his chest, taking in his body heat, his quiet breathing. After a moment, she felt him settle his enormous paw of a hand on her head and slowly stroke her hair.

Just before Annabeth slipped into sleep, she heard him whisper. "I can't stay here all night."

"I know," she mumbled. "What would the neighbors say?"


	42. Chapter 42

Miraculously, Annabeth was able to arise at her normal hour the next morning.

Six-thirty a.m...only three hours had passed since Bruce had come to her. The sun had not yet quite risen, and so her bedroom was still dark, but Annabeth could tell that she was alone, once more. The only other living creatures in her home were Jed and Wurzel, who were curled up in their customary places beside her. No doubt they had not appreciated being evicted by a strange man, and hadn't hesitated to reclaim their spots when he finally vacated the room.

_So strange. _She had to force herself to recall the unexpected visitation and conversation, to believe that it had actually happened. She remembered feeling Bruce's hands, gently stroking her hair. And then she recalled something else—right before he slipped out of her bed, he had placed his hands carefully, almost worshipfully, on her belly.

And then he had left, taking all evidence of his presence with him. Except for one thing: a hastily-scrawled note, which he had placed on the top of her scraggly tree.

_Charlie Brown would be ashamed. Get a real tree._

Unwillingly, she smiled. _Punk_.

Quickly, she showered and dressed, and with equal speed, threw together a fruit salad and brewed a pot of herbal tea, trying all the while not to think about the coffee she had given up for the length of her pregnancy. She fed the animals and took a few moments to clean up the worst of the previous evening's mess, and she managed to get out the door by a quarter till eight. She didn't have to be into the office for a while yet, but she felt unusually charged and energized. Who knew what the day had to offer? Plus, there was always plenty to do, and plenty to justify her arriving early.

The morning was predictably cold, but all of the clouds had disappeared before the bright sun, the freshly-fallen snow was dazzlingly bright. The pollution, soot, and dirt of Gotham had not yet had a chance to spoil the crystalline beauty, and Annabeth actually paused for a moment to take in the scene. A snowplow noisily chugged past, and in the clear, brittle air, she could easily hear the chiming bells from St. Magdalena's, three blocks over. Across the street, a woman hurried her two children along, no doubt running late on her way to take them to school.

_Could that be her in a couple of years?_

"Christ, de Burgh, pull it together," Annabeth scolded herself. "One semi-romantic interlude and you're practically picking out the wedding gown."

A man dressed in a crisply-pressed suit threw her an amused glance as he sped past her on his way to the subway.

_What nonsense. _Squaring her shoulders, she added a little speed to her walk and became, once more, just another citizen of Gotham, charging ahead with a purpose, on her way to work.

But there was no denying the fact that something had changed within her.

And not just her, either.

* * *

"Stop looking at me like that, Alfred."

Obediently, Alfred turned away from Bruce, but not before the younger man saw the smirk on his wise butler's face.

The two of them were in the massive kitchen at Wayne Manor, where Alfred was preparing a fortifying breakfast for Bruce. He had turned up not long before Alfred arose at six. This, in and of itself, was not remarkable, but the fact that Bruce was so obviously..._not_ his abnormally neurotic self...had tipped off Alfred that perhaps the Batman hadn't been up to his typical maraudings and hijinks the night before.

In fact, Alfred had a fairly strong suspicion that last night was less about a bat and more about a tomcat.

No, he corrected himself silently, that wasn't quite right either. It wasn't a fair or accurate description of either Bruce or Annabeth, both of whom were two of the most un-promiscuous people Alfred knew. But he was no fool, and was in fact well-versed in the ways of human nature, and between that timeless knowledge and his keen sense of smell, which had immediately picked up an unlikely whiff of lady's shampoo on the Batsuit, Alfred was fairly confident that he knew exactly what company Bruce Wayne had been keeping during the night.

And so Alfred permitted himself one or two knowing smirks.

And Bruce glowered.

All in all, because of the many things that went unspoken, it was a fairly silent early morning in Wayne Manor. Alfred wisely kept his thoughts to himself as he went about brewing the extra strong coffee that Master Wayne preferred, as well as his own favorite tea, then set out the makings for omelets. After this, he ignited the kindling he had laid out in the enormous fireplace the night before, and watched as the fire crackled to life.

"Pretty damned useless, a fireplace in the kitchen," Bruce grumbled good-naturedly. "It's not the nineteenth century any more."

"You were the one who ordered we restore the Manor, brick for brick, to its original condition," Alfred retorted, unperturbed by Bruce's harmless griping. "Besides, I find it rather elegant."

There was no denying that the fire added a cozy element to the kitchen, which was not exactly the warmest room in the house. Its largeness and its stone floor saw to that. But with the lively, bright flames and the tea kettle singing away on the stove, it was a surprisingly pleasant space.

Bruce watched as Alfred moved about the kitchen, setting out plates and silverware, measuring ingredients, fetching items from the enormous refrigerator. He moved with a measured, patient grace, born from years of—what?

_Working for him. Waiting for him._

How much of a life could Alfred have possibly had? It seemed that most of it had been in the service of the Wayne family, such as it was. And yet he rarely complained; he simply continued to assist, continued to provide gentle guidance and succor. As strange as Bruce felt his own life was, sometimes he felt that Alfred's was even stranger.

Alfred caught Bruce gazing at him thoughtfully and cocked his head in a questioning manner. "Something on your mind, Master Wayne?"

"No more so than normal."

The two men resumed their silence.

Soon enough, Alfred had set before Bruce a plate heaped with food. "Tuck in, Master Wayne. I imagine you're quite hungry after last night's excursions."

Bruce glared at Alfred, who simply smirked again and commenced with cleaning up.

"Alright, alright, enough with the loaded comments," he snapped. "Yes, I was with Annabeth last night."

"I gathered as much," Alfred responded, his tone neutral. But there was curiosity alight in his eyes, and Bruce did not fail to notice this.

"Nothing happened."

"I see." Still, Alfred's expectant gaze bore into him.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

Bruce shook his head. "Never mind."

"Of course, Master Wayne."

Alfred resumed cleaning, and Bruce resumed nursing his coffee.

After another moment, Bruce spoke again. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

Bruce chose his words with care. "Do you...ah...that is, does it..."

Alfred knew Bruce Wayne to be many things—more of a gifted actor than even himself, possibly one of the smartest people in Alfred's acquaintance, as well as one of the most unforgiving and proud men he had ever met. He was stubborn and neurotic, extremely articulate, and very rarely at a loss for words. So it was, to say the least, unusual—and somewhat amusing—to watch the young master stumble. But Alfred was a firm believer in a certain bit of humility, and he believed that sometimes, people needed to stumble through the question and find the answer for themselves. So he merely raised his eyebrows questioningly and listened.

Finally, Bruce blurted it out. "Do you get lonely around here?"

Whatever surprise Alfred may have felt regarding the abrupt question, he did not reveal it to Bruce. He turned to the sink, where he began scrubbing some dishes that had accumulated there. It gave him a moment to gather his thoughts.

After a moment, he turned back to Bruce and leaned against the counter. "No more or less than you do, I imagine."

A clever answer, and one that parried the conversation back into Bruce's court. He had never been particularly adept at discussing emotions. But he had to acknowledge them now, to receive confirmation from Alfred.

"It gets...quiet around here," he finally conceded.

Alfred nodded. "It never _was _a particularly thriving place. But at least when your parents were alive...there was more entertaining. And then there was always you and Miss Rachel, running around..." he fell silent, sensing the pain that such a recollection would bring to Bruce.

Indeed, Bruce's eyes went distant for a moment, as his mind went to a far-off, long-ago place, remembering. And then he nodded. "It was a little bit better then." He lifted his head. "But now...the Manor is really a hollow shell."

"It doesn't have to be."

"No." Bruce fell into silence, and for the next five minutes, offered no more conversation. Alfred finished cleaning, poured more coffee for Bruce, and began to plan the tasks for the day ahead. Bruce continued to eat, but it was clear that his mind wasn't on food.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"Since you're around the Manor more than me, I think you should have a say in this."

"A say in what?"

"How would you feel if...maybe an additional tenant came to live at the Manor?"

A smile tugged at Alfred's mouth, but he fought it back. "Just one tenant, Master Wayne?"

_He's not making this very easy, _Bruce thought crossly. _Well, why should he? _"Well...two tenants, but the second one wouldn't be immediate."

"Two tenants, Master Wayne? Just people?"

_Damn the old man. _"Ah...well, the Manor _is _fairly large. I think we might be able to fit a cat and a dog in here, too..._stop smirking!"_

Alfred turned his face away until he was able to gain control. When he finally turned around, however, he met Bruce's gaze with a stern expression. "You'd better be certain, Master Wayne. There are a lot of people whom this will effect."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I'm not even sure Annabeth will go along with it. I think she's just as likely to move to a commune in San Francisco and try her hand at child-rearing there."

There was no answer to this, as Alfred knew enough about to Annabeth to agree with Bruce's assessment. He merely smiled in silent, appreciative agreement and began to make his way out of the kitchen.

"Where are you off to?" Bruce called after him.

When Alfred turned around, his face was no longer blandly agreeable; rather, there was mischief alight in his eyes. "I'm going to start decorating for Christmas today."

"What?" Bruce nearly fell out of his chair in genuine astonishment. "Oh, hell. Not you too!"

It would be a few hours before Bruce needed to be anywhere, so, for lack of anything more pressing to tend to, he followed Alfred out of the kitchen and through the manor. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Oh, I most certainly am, sir." Alfred gestured around him. "Of course, we decorated for the charity ball, and all of that was quite fine and festive. But rather impersonal, don't you think? We had professional decorators come in, for pity's sake."

Bruce scratched the back of his head, trying to follow Alfred's chain of thought. "What's wrong with that? Can billionaires really be expected to decorate their homes themselves?"

"No, particularly not if the billionaire in question is a scrooge who moonlights as an emotionally-stunted caped crusader," Alfred retorted, unperturbed. "However, the billionaire's butler can reasonably be expected to tend to these matters. Hence, I am."

"Damned waste of a day, if you ask me," Bruce grumbled. And then remembered the wreck of Annabeth's home, the previous evening. What on earth were they thinking?

"Not everyone is as single-minded and...indifferent to life...as you, sir." Alfred pointed this out with a tone of exasperation. "And were you, or were you not, just contemplating opening your home to additional elements of life? I think it's only safe to presume that other...ah, residents won't necessarily share your disdain for the traditions of humanity. Particularly if one of the other residents happens to be a child."

Shamed, Bruce remained silent...until he followed Alfred into the study.

The study which led to the Batcave.

"Really, Alfred? _Really?_" Bruce shook his head in disbelief. There were already several boxes sitting about, ruining the Old World order and splendor of the room. As well, an eight-foot Douglas fir now stood sentry very near the grand piano. "How many rooms does the manor have? And this is the one you've decided to personally decorate?"

"I find it quite fitting, sir." Alfred knelt by one of the closest boxes. "I had my niece over in London ship these decorations to me. Some of them were from my childhood...some of them, she found in antique stores. And some of them come from an artisan in the Cotswolds who specializes in reproduction Victorian Christmas decor."

He glanced over at Bruce, who had settled himself into an armchair and attempted to look deeply unimpressed.

"Do you care to help, Master Wayne?"

Bruce stretched out his legs. "No. I intend to watch until you get bored and find some other way to make my life complicated."

"Odd. I often find myself saying the same thing about you."

Alfred turned his attention to the task of decorating the study, and Bruce sat back and watched.

Within fifteen minutes, Alfred had managed to unpack and organize the majority of the boxes. As he began to start in on the last two, he heard a gentle choking sound behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Bruce stretched out, his head tilted over the back of the armchair. He was emitting slow, quiet snores.

Alfred smiled and continued to decorate.

And so the morning unfolded, and began to creep towards the afternoon. Bruce slept on, and Alfred managed to do just as he threatened: turn the study leading to the Batcave into a scene from a Dickens Christmas story. He had just finished fastening the last of the electric candles to the tree branches when the peace was finally shattered.

From deep in his pocket, Bruce's cell phone rang. Alfred watched as Bruce jerked awake, first in bemusement as he took stock of his surroundings, and then with increasing awareness as he checked the caller ID. "It's Lucius."

"Interesting," was Alfred's only remark—but his eyes darkened in worried anticipation.

Bruce answered. "Lucius. Good morning."

"It might be morning to you, Mr. Wayne. The rest of us call it early afternoon. Surprising that I got you this early."

"I simply didn't sleep last night. Too many parties, too many people to see, "

"Indeed. Is there any chance you can fit one more into your busy schedule?"

"Possibly. What have you got?"

"Coleman Reese."

"You're shitting me."

Alfred gave Bruce a sharp glance. It was unusual for him to make a remark in that vein.

"Not at all, Mr. Wayne." The amusement in Lucius' voice was audible. "You really think I'd turn him loose? I buried him down in accounting right before I left, and when I came back, I resurrected him. He's an enterprising little weasel, I'll give him that. He can sniff out any sort of..." he paused, then said "Hang on."

Bruce listened as Lucius covered the receiver with his hand. A muffled, brief conversation was carried on the other end, but Lucius quickly returned. "My apologies. Mr. Reese wants to make it clear that the information he is providing to us is merely the product of one of the duties enumerated in his employment contract, and in no way does he expect or will accept compensation outside of the designated salary paid for by Wayne Enterprises."

"Huh?"

"He's not blackmailing you."

"Ah. I see."

"So can you come in to talk with us?"

Bruce frowned. "Can I send Alfred in?"

"I suppose so. You have somewhere else you need to be?"

Bruce glanced over at Alfred, who was feigning inattention—badly. And then he glanced around the enormous kitchen, and quietly considered the echoing mansion beyond. "As a matter of fact, I do."

* * *

Alfred and Lucius had known each other for a long time. Besides harboring a genuine regard and respect for each other, they had nurtured a solid working relationship over the years. More recently, a mutual empathy and understanding of what the other had to put up with regarding Bruce had enriched their friendship even more. It certainly didn't hurt that they often found themselves working together on the same projects. So Alfred wasn't the least bit confused that Bruce sent him into Wayne Towers to look into the information that Lucius had provided.

Jessica Waterhouse didn't bat an eyelash, either. She had long since grown accustomed to the quirks and oddities of Bruce Wayne and the strange habits that he introduced to the 85th floor, and she personally enjoyed the dignity and courtesy of the Wayne family's butler. She gave Alfred her usual cool smile and friendly nod as Lucius led him into the board room, and then went back to her tasks.

But she couldn't help but wonder what that little twit Coleman Reese was doing in there with them.

Inside the board room, Alfred was wondering the same thing.

"Last I heard of you, you were trying to blackmail my employer with some bizarre allegations," he remarked mildly to Coleman Reese.

Coleman glanced over at Lucius. "Um...water under the bridge?"

Lucius smiled encouragingly. "Fact is, Alfred, Mr. Reese has put his remarkable research skills to good use. We may just be indebted to him."

"I'm perfectly content with what I earn," Coleman said hastily.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Coleman Reese is one of our attorneys who specializes in researching the financials of other companies."

"I'm aware of this," Alfred said cautiously.

"But what you might not know—in fact, I wasn't even aware of it until fairly recently—is that Coleman here also has extensive training as a forensic accountant."

"I see." Alfred didn't see, at least not yet. Lucius smiled.

"I had him assist me with some of the financial information of some businessmen we've been needing to research. In almost all scenarios, Coleman managed to dig up potentially damaging information."

"That is impressive," Alfred said sincerely. He nodded at Coleman. "Well done."

"Thank you."

"Unfortunately, very little of it pertains to the entire reason for the research." Here Lucius began to speak obliquely; as far as he was concerned, Coleman Reese didn't need to know who had commissioned the research, or why. Although, if he was truly the industrious weasel that Lucius and Bruce had portrayed, he'd figure it out.

"If nothing pertains to what we were searching for, what's the issue?" Alfred was confused.

"I didn't say _nothing. _I said _very little." _Lucius reached for the slim file folder which sat on the table and passed it to Alfred. "Coleman did find one or two things that might be of assistance."

Alfred flipped through the folder at the same time as Coleman explained the contents.

"Bank records for Seth Percival and another woman, dating back to 1983. Nothing remarkable in and of that..."

"No," Alfred agreed. "But it's surprising that we didn't find this earlier."

"The bank went under in 1990, and the majority of the clients and their records were absorbed by Chicago Mutual. So you dug up the records for Chicago Mutual, which explains why you didn't dig deeper and come up with the older, archived bank records. And then when Percival switched over to Chicago Mutual, the woman's name was dropped from the accounts.

"The woman's name was...?"

"Gretchen Rogers."

Lucius shrugged. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"It actually does with me." Alfred searched through his memory. "I believe that Seth Percival was married to this woman. I recall coming up with the marriage certificate and the divorce papers when I did research on him."

Coleman nodded. "That would explain why her name dropped off the bank account. I just thought it was worth noting since she hadn't come up in any of the other digging I did." He looked slightly disappointed, as though he were hoping that his discovery would yield something more significant.

The three men remained quiet for a moment, and then, individually, the same conclusion dawned on each of them.

"Wait-" Lucius started.

"Isn't it odd..." Alfred frowned, but didn't take the thought farther.

It was Coleman, surprisingly, that voiced the thought that was taking root in each of their brains. "A seven-year marriage, and Gretchen Rogers' name only comes up three times? Isn't that a little unusual? Jesus, my marriage only last three years and the paperwork was the size of a small forest."

Alfred swore. And then he stood and hastily gathered the papers. "Thank you, Lucius. And you, Mr. Reese."

"Where are you going?" Lucius asked, worried. Alfred's face was pale.

"Back to the manor. I have more research to do."

* * *

After he had sent Alfred into the city, Bruce headed up to his room for a long shower. Having bathed and dressed, he fortified himself with one more large cup of coffee, and then hunted down the keys to one of the cars. It only took a moment's deliberation to choose the Volvo—he knew that Annabeth abhorred ostentation, and the last thing he wanted to do was to wave a Ferrari or a Lamborghini under her nose.

The funny truth of it was, he had no intention of doing anything momentous—not that day, anyway. But he _did _want to see Annabeth again, and more to the point, he needed to talk to her about something.

And, to be embarrassingly honest, he was a little nervous about seeing her again, so soon after last night.

Of course, the moment he stepped into Safe Haven, his nervousness passed. Thomas waved him up, but not before giving him one brief roll of the eyes. He looked stressed.

"Tough day already?" Bruce asked in sympathy.

"Man, and you don't even get _paid_ to spend time with all this estrogen."

Bruce stepped into the elevator, laughing appreciatively.

Of course, the working floors of Safe Haven were in a predictable state of chaos. The phone was ringing off the hook, and several children, no doubt excited by the impending Christmas holiday, were running about, shrieking with glee. Bruce wasn't surprised in the slightest that Maya sat, calm and collected, amidst the chaos, seemingly undisturbed.

Her face lit up when she saw Bruce, but before she could say a word, the phone rang again. "Safe Haven Consulting...no, she's not available...I can forward you through to her voice mail if you'd like..._No. _I can hand deliver a message, but she can't talk right now." She rolled her eyes at Bruce, who grinned.

After a moment, she hung up. "Some lady from a business called Boudicca, Incorporated. She's called three times this morning, for fuck's sake. She _has _to speak with Annabeth. Persistent woman, I'll give her that."

Bruce smiled crookedly. "Aren't they all?"

"Touché. You want Annabeth or Donna?"

"Both, eventually. But I'll start with Donna, if she's around."

"For you? Always."

"I'll wait here while you call."

Maya leaned back in her chair, threw back her head, and bellowed: "_DONNA!"_

She turned back to Bruce and grinned. "What's one more noise in this zoo?"

"Jesus christ, are the phones broken again?" Donna emerged from her office. "I'm pretty sure every Donna on the block just answered."

"Phones aren't broken, but that might change if that woman calls one more time." Maya had already resumed her typing.

"That woman from Boudicca? Bloody stupid name. For fuck's sake, what the hell does she want with Annabeth?" Donna shook her head. "I'm fairly certain it qualifies as stalking."

Briefly, Bruce wondered if Annabeth got her language from Donna and Maya, or vice versa. But before he had a chance to pursue that train of thought, Donna turned to him. "Bruce, come on back to my office."

As they headed down the hall, Bruce asked, "What's Boudicca?"

"Oh, some lobbyist organization based out of DC. They're not as influential as NOW, but give them time. Very up-and-coming; if they change the name they might go somewhere."

"Boudicca," Bruce repeated. "Wasn't that some sort of Celtic queen?"

"Yes. Roman Britain. Her daughters were raped by the Romans, and so she and her tribe revolted and routed the Romans for a while. Of course, she was defeated, but it's still rather inspiring as women empowerment stories go...but why do I have the suspicion you already know all this?"

Bruce shrugged sheepishly. "Seems a little presumptuous for a man to tell the story."

Donna laughed all the way back down the hall.

Half an hour later, Bruce emerged from Donna's office. Their meeting had been mainly to go over what had already been decided for the Take Back the Night Rally, but it was the excuse Bruce had needed to come to Safe Haven. And now for the _actual _reason...

Annabeth's office door was open, and he could hear her voice on the phone. He tapped on the door jamb and leaned against it—much as he had done in her home not twelve hours before—and Annabeth glanced up and signaled him in.

"I understand she's your mother, but it was her choice..." her voice sounded strained, yet patient. "I can't release that information...only she can." She held the receiver away from her head, presumably to shield her ear from the shrill squawking which was issuing forth. After a moment, the squawking abruptly stopped, and Annabeth slowly hung up the phone.

"I can only assume she hung up on me," Annabeth sighed.

"What's all that about?"

"Aurgh." Annabeth propped her elbows on the desk and buried her head in her hands for a moment. "It happens every year. This year—a sixty-two year old grandmother, Bea, shows up. Three days ago. She's been faithfully married for forty years to a man who has, with equal faith, beaten the shit out of her for every year of their marriage. This Christmas season, he decided she's spent a little too much on some of the grandkid's toys, and so he proceeds to beat her senseless."

Bruce shook his head.

"With a china doll she had purchased for her granddaughter." Annabeth added, smiling grimly. "I almost have to credit the bastard for resourcefulness. Anyway, he breaks her nose—and the china doll too, so her face got pretty cut up. Her youngest son, a bit of a black sheep, especially now, talked her into coming here. The rest of the family found out, and now they're fit to be tied."

"And the grandmother? Bea, you said her name was?"

"Still in shock that she finally grew a pair after all this time. But she seems to be bent on sticking with her plan to leave the husband."

Bruce didn't bother to mask the admiration in his eyes.

"_ANNABETH!" _Maya's voice rang down the corridor. "_IT'S BOUDICCA AGAIN!"_

"Tell her to leave a message, like everyone else!" Annabeth bellowed back. To Bruce, she asked rhetorically, "For fuck's sake, who is this woman?"

"A Celtic rebel, I think," Bruce offered helpfully. "Maybe she wants lessons in castration?"

Annabeth smiled but didn't answer. Instead, she beckoned him into the office. "Close the door behind you."

He obeyed, and then took a seat on the other side of her desk. Only then did he notice how clean her office had become. The boxes and piles of papers and file folders and books that had cluttered the tiny space had disappeared in recent weeks.

"Cleaning house?"

"Mmm." Annabeth shrugged noncommittally.

"Well, it's cleaner than your condo."

Annabeth gave him a dirty look, then smiled. "Is this a social call?"

"Actually, no." Bruce leaned in. "I need to ask something of you."

It was an indication of how far their tenuous relationship had mended that Annabeth didn't protest or snark. "Okay."

"Over the next couple of weeks...I need for you to lie low."

"'Lie low'?" Annabeth repeated.

"I'm serious, Annabeth." Bruce leaned in and caught her hands. "I know you've got a vested interest in what's about to go down. I understand that. I don't think anyone has worked harder than you. But—I need to know you'll be safe." He paused. "I need to know the baby's safe."

It was the first time he had referred to it. Their eyes locked.

Annabeth sighed. "I'd already decided that. I don't...I can't take any chances. Things are going to be hard enough, I think."

Up until now, Bruce had attempted to maintain a neutral expression, but now his eyes widened in alarm. "Why? Has something happened?"

"Not yet. But I'm not exactly at a young, healthy age for a first baby." Annabeth's eyes were full of worry. "And I certainly have had my share of problems down there. So it might get to be a bumpy ride...no pun intended."

"I'll find the best doctor," Bruce promised. "You'll get the best care."

"Um...sorry to broach the obvious subject, but what does all this mean, Bruce? It's not like we've exactly sat down and had a talk about what's going to happen."

"And we will. Soon. I promise. But I wanted to make sure we were on the same page with this one. I don't want you to get hurt, you or the baby. If I could...I'd hide you away in the Manor until this is all over."

Annabeth rolled her eyes. "It's not necessary. Until you...er, until the Batman and Gordon raid the stash house, I'm going to be either here or at home. I'm not going near the Narrows. I already had decided that." More softly, but firmly, she added, "I don't want to lose this baby."

"I know. I don't want you to, either." Bruce smiled gently. "I'll...the Batman will be keeping an eye on your place, too. If Trinity's coming and going from there, there's always a risk."

"There always will be, so long as we live in Gotham," Annabeth pointed out.

There was no arguing with that, and Bruce didn't try. They sat there, quietly, for another moment, and then Annabeth cleared her throat. "Thank you...for last night. It was—well, I know it was difficult for you."

"It was," Bruce conceded. "But it was necessary."

"Can I ask you something?"

"What?" He was instantly wary.

"It's a stupid question...but do you want it to be a boy or a girl?"

Bruce looked floored for a moment. "I hadn't thought about it. At all. I just...hadn't gotten that far."

"Understandable."

"I mean, I wasn't even sure you were going to let me near it. I'm still not sure where we stand."

"Me neither."

"But..." Bruce paused for a moment and thought. "I really understand why people say 'so long as it's healthy'...and I agree. And so long as _you_ stay healthy. That's even more important to me." He looked over at her, took in her pale, wan appearance. "I worry."

"I know."

A thought occurred to Bruce and he blurted it out before he could stop himself. "Although, a girl would with both of our genes could be a formidable opponent, indeed."

Annabeth snorted, but before she could answer, there was a loud rap on the door, and it thrust inward to reveal a harassed-looking Maya. "Sorry to interrupt, but that woman called _again, _and she's threatening to fly up here if you don't answer."

"Patch her through," Annabeth sighed.

Bruce rose from his seat. "We'll have that talk very soon. I promise. And _I'll see you tonight." _He mouthed this last part. "Let me know if there's anything you need."

He headed out, but not before he heard her phone ringing and her answering.

"Annabeth de Burgh here..."

The weather may have cleared up, but it certainly didn't make driving conditions for Barbara Gordon any easier. She uttered a long and colorful string of oaths as she encountered yet another long traffic back-up. Gotham drivers were a hardened lot, for certain, but absolutely incompetent when it came to the elements. And there were still enough piles of snow and ice slicks to make driving hazardous.

Not for the first time, she cursed the traffic law that forbade motorcyclists from lane splitting. She had very little use for California, but the one time she had visited that nutty place, she had been deeply satisfied with her ability to zip around the scads of gridlocked traffic. No such luck in Gotham. And so, because she was—more or less—a law abiding citizen, and had no desire to sink her drinking and book money in a pointless traffic ticket, here she sat.

_Damned waste of time._

From what the weather guys were saying, another spate of winter storms was on its way, and she had a narrow, 16-hour window of opportunity to avail herself to the good weather and run some errands. Barbara loved her bike, and that was the only way she allowed herself to get around—except during the inclement winter months. And even then, she seized whatever opportunities she had at her disposal.

She had intended to hit the bank, the pharmacist, the DMV; she had planned on a leisurely lunch at one of her favorite pubs, and she had fully plotted to head out to that stupid rehab place and give her adoptive mother a piece of her mind. And then she would top off her day by a lengthy research session in the Library's archives..

But here it was, getting on to be three o'clock in the afternoon, and the day appeared to be a bust. Already, the feeble winter sunlight was fading. The DMV had been inexplicably closed ("furloughs," one disgruntled citizen had speculated as he had stalked away from the locked doors, "Fucking people don't want to pay any more taxes but then they all bitch when services get cut."), and the trip to the rehab facility looked like it wasn't going to happen, either. Instead, she was stuck in traffic with a surprisingly strong urge to punch someone. Something of a pity, really—she'd be perfectly happy punching her adoptive mother. Her father had told her what Barbara Senior wanted, and that didn't sit well at all with his daughter and self-appointed champion.

Her stomach growled, pulling her attention away from such cross thoughts. Perhaps an early dinner would solve a few issues. And then what...? A thought suddenly occurred to her. She checked her mirrors and cut over a couple of lanes, guiding her bike into a narrow space that wasn't exactly intended for parking. Well, she might not follow _all _the rules of the road. Hopefully, she'd only be there for a minute. She fished out her phone from deep within the pockets of her leather bomber and paused to think. _Now what was the name of that place where Annabeth works?_

A moment later she had her answer. And thankfully, it was in the exact opposite direction of all of the traffic...and not too far from her favorite pub, either.

* * *

Bruce found himself in a similar gridlock as he attempted to navigate his way out of the city. Fortunately, he didn't mind nearly as much as Barbara did. The enforced idleness gave him time to reflect on the latest developments with Annabeth.

He hadn't expected her to be so amenable to sitting things out, but then again—why should he really be surprised at all? At one point, Annabeth had wanted to be a mother, but had been told that it was unlikely. Along with that unlikelihood was a certain amount of risk—Bruce didn't need to be an OB-GYN to figure that much out. She was no fool, and understood the risks to her person even better than he did. It didn't take a genius to see that, while she didn't have a clue about how to proceed, she had every intention of keeping the baby.

The major question that remained was, what part would she allow Bruce to have? What part did he _want _to have? What was he willing to fight for?

And would he even need to fight? Her behavior over the last day hadn't exactly been discouraging.

"We'll talk about it later," he had told Annabeth, and he meant it. At some point—ideally sooner rather than later—they were going to have to sit down and figure out their options. He hadn't wanted to discuss it right then, in the middle of Safe Haven, because he had not yet quite worked out in his own mind what he wanted, and he certainly hadn't been able to tell what Annabeth wanted, and there was no point in talking about it until he had some ideas planned out. But maybe he wouldn't get things figured out alone; maybe he needed to hash them out with her. Together.

_Now is as good as time as any._

His cell phone trilled.

_Maybe not._

It was Alfred. "Are you still in the City?"

"Not for long. Once I get out of traffic, it should be a straight shot. Why?"

"I think maybe you should stay in the city."

Alfred's voice, normally so unruffled, betrayed a certain amount of agitation, and Bruce's radar immediately went off. _Trouble. _"What's up?"

"There's something we missed."

Bruce saw a small motor accident on the shoulder up ahead, and smoothly switched lanes. "Go ahead."

"Coleman Reese dug up something, bank records for Seth Percival and his previous wife, Gretchen Rogers. We've been focusing entirely on Percival, so we completely missed the fact that this wife of his completely dropped off the face of the planet once they were divorced."

"Okay..."

"But what's also interesting is that, prior to their marriage, she does not seem to exist anywhere, either. Gretchen Rogers had a social security number and a birth certificate; that much I can tell from the marriage application and license. But other than that—no drivers license, no work history, nothing. I'm beginning to suspect those were fabricated documents."

"Is that even possible?"

"Master Wayne, you and I both know that with enough money, anything is possible."

"Very valid point. But still, odd. I suppose it's worth looking into."

"That's the problem, Master Wayne. I've gone as far as I can get with my research—the software we have here is only so sophisticated, and while it can get into most networks, it takes time. And our hackers out west only have so much by way of resources. We need something faster and more powerful. "

Bruce didn't even need to think about it. "Wayne Towers—down in R&D. We've got Undertow there." Undertow was the name for the extremely powerful computer system that Lucius had commissioned for some of their more...sensitive...research needs. "Meet me there in an hour."

"Right you are."

Alfred disconnected, leaving Bruce with a deep sense of unease.


	43. Chapter 43

Stacy was getting seriously annoyed.

The lame-ass "safe house" where they had stashed her was the most pathetic excuse for a shelter she'd ever seen. All those damned screaming kids, the harried mothers, the cynical workers who tried to act so caring. Shit, nothing she hadn't seen before. At least when she stayed at the Y she got some peace and quiet.

She shared a room with a seventeen-year-old by the name of Zoe. _Zoe, _for chrissakes. What parent names their kid Zoe? Apparently a parent who raised an insecure chatterbox, because that was Zoe, through and through. She never...stopped..._talking_. She was sweet enough, sure, but Stacy never got a moment's peace when the girl was around.

And she was around a lot.

Stacy had spent most of the afternoon on her bed, disdaining the company of the rest of the safe house. A fair few of the women had involved themselves with the latest arrival, an old woman who had managed to leave her fucker of a husband after a billion years of marriage and abuse.

_Bully for her._

Zoe had, for once, abandoned the room and joined the larger crowd of inhabitants in the common area, no doubt to assail the grandma's ear with her pointless talk.

Since she was gone, Stacy took advantage of the sudden privacy. Now was as good a time as any...

Five minutes later, she had bundled up and grabbed a messenger bag that Maya had given to her. She threw a few books in there, as well as an extra sweater and some granola bars she had squirreled away from the kitchen. She only intended to be gone for a few hours, but it never hurt to bring along fuel for an extra adventure.

She hefted the window up, and poked her head out. Damn, it was cold_, _even by Gotham's standards. Nonetheless, she thrust her torso out the window, followed by one leg, then the other. And then, swiftly, she tugged the window closed and bounded down the fire escape before Zoe could return to the room and narc her out.

Time for another adventure.

* * *

Since Bruce Wayne's return to Gotham and Wayne Enterprises, both R&D and the Applied Sciences Division had undergone substantial make-overs. They were still buried in the deepest recesses of Wayne Tower, of course, but whereas once all of the equipment and furniture and technology were neglected at best and antiquated at worst, now the entire area was sleek, beautifully maintained, filled with all sorts of fascinating devices, and quite well-protected. _Extremely _well-protected. Very few people had completely unrestricted access to this portion of Wayne Towers: Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox, and whoever accompanied them.

Today, it was Alfred who joined them down in the basement. As Lucius and Bruce hovered around Undertow, beginning the complex process of...well, hacking, Alfred gazed around at the humming equipment and blazing lights. It wasn't quite to his taste, really—he preferred the antiques and dignified furnishings of the Manor.

"Tell me again what you found," Bruce said over his shoulder.

Lucius and Alfred explained.

"We'll start with the Court records out in Chicago," Bruce decided. "At the same time, hit the DMV and the Social Security Administration. Look for any information on Gretchen Rogers, of course—but we want to find out where she came from before, and what happened to her after."

"It's still going to take a while," Lucius reminded him. "Those are some pretty heavy searches to be running simultaneously."

"We don't have a while," Bruce snapped. "We need to get this information now." The longer he thought about it, the more fishy things smelled.

Lucius and Alfred glanced at each other, silently sharing their exasperation.

"I saw that," Bruce grumbled. "Would it go faster if I cranked the damned thing by hand?"

"It'll go easier if you stop griping, sir." This came from Alfred as he leaned in and watched the columns of data and the dozens of jpegs flash across the monitor.

"What time is it?" Bruce asked, and then answered himself. "Getting on towards five."

"Dark will be falling soon," Alfred pointed out.

Lucius glanced over at Alfred, and then up at Bruce. "Do you think there's somewhere else you should go?"

Bruce considered this for a moment. "I can think of a place or two."

"I think there's some...possible outfits in the...urban headquarters," Alfred said delicately "And some equipment, too. The head-set is powered up, and I'll be available."

Still, Bruce hesitated.

"Go," Alfred urged. "The second we come up with something, we'll contact you. Anyway, you're bloody useless, here."

* * *

The earlier chaos which had beset Safe Haven seemed to have died down, and peace resumed once more. Donna closed her door to crunch numbers for the remainder of the afternoon; Annabeth started to work on some long-neglected case reports, and and the majority of the noisy kids—eight in all—settled down for a quiet nap or to their afternoon studies.

Maya sighed with private satisfaction. _Finally, _a chance to get actual work done. While she bore the title of receptionist and personal assistant, she actually did a great deal more. She observed the most, heard the most, knew the most.

For example, she knew exactly what men Donna juggled.

She knew that Annabeth was in the family way, keeping it a secret, and drowning in a mire of terrified indecision.

She knew which of the clients were doing fine, and which were struggling.

She knew the finances of Safe Haven, inside and out.

And she also happened to know that _Boudicca _wasn't just calling to make small talk with Annabeth de Burgh. The woman was a head-hunter, and Annabeth was her next quarry.

But one of the reasons Maya was so good at her job had a lot to do with her discretion. She knew when to chide Annabeth, she knew when to be firm with the clients, she knew when to gently flirt with Bruce Wayne—or any other benefactor, really—she knew when to stay out of Donna's way, and she knew when to keep her mouth shut—which was most of the time.

She was a receptionist, but she knew all.

Except...

"Maya?"

Maya glanced up from her computer to see Zoe lingering by her desk. Zoe was a fairly new client, an honest and earnest young girl—young woman, really—who had had the good sense to get out of a bad family situation. She was sweet and in constant need of reassurance and validation, as well as some healthy relationships; it was unfortunate that a lack of space had stuck her with that ornery wretch, Stacy.

"What's up, Zoe?"

"Stacy took off again."

For at least the third, but perhaps the thirtieth, time that day, Maya bellowed, "ANNABETH!"

A moment later, Annabeth emerged from her office. "What now?"

"Stacy's gone again."

"_Shit._ This is not what I need." Annabeth checked her watch. "How long has she been gone?"

"I left her a couple of hours ago," Zoe said helpfully. "It's a little after five right now."

Maya turned her gaze to Annabeth and raised her eyebrows. Annabeth sighed in resigned annoyance. "Thanks, Zoe. You did the right thing."

"I hope so." Zoe turned to go, but Annabeth immediately called her back. "Wait a minute..."

Zoe waited.

Annabeth nodded. "Really, Zoe, thank you. I know that your roommate isn't exactly the most fun chick you've ever met...so thank you. And hang in there...who knows? You might have a new roommate before you know it."

Zoe nodded again, flashed Maya a tentative smile, and ducked out of Annabeth's office. The two older women watched her depart. "Good kid," Maya remarked.

"She sure is," Annabeth agreed. "It's girls like her who make this job worthwhile." A strange, sad expression crossed over her face, and Maya did not fail to observe this.

"Annabeth..." Maya glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one else was in the hallway. "Think long and hard about this."

"Sorry?"

"Boudicca. Think long and hard before you go to work for them."

Annabeth rubbed her eyes wearily. "Who said anything about me working for anyone else?" Her tone grew sharp. "Were you listening into my phone conversation?"

"Not at all," Maya reassured her. "But I'm not stupid. I know that they're head-hunting you. I'm just saying, think long and hard before you take that job."

"I'm just...just weighing all my options," Annabeth said defensively. "_They _came to me."

"I don't doubt it. And I'm not judging...I just wanted to put in my two cents. And now I'm done."

Annabeth considered the younger woman for a moment."You could run this place, Maya," she said softly.

Maya flashed her a grateful grin. "Don't I know it! But I see what you and Donna give, and frankly, I don't have it in me."

"You don't know until you try."

"And you don't know when you've given too much until everything's gone," Maya countered. "Look, it's getting late. I think I'm going to try to shove out of here before six, if it's okay by you."

"If it's okay with the big boss, it's okay with me." Annabeth's attention was already turning itself back to her reports. "I'll stick around until Stacy turns up."

Maya left her to her work, but Annabeth found herself unable to resume her task. Instead, she glanced at her watch. She needed to call Gordon before it got any later.

* * *

Over at MCU, Jim Gordon was trying to wrap up his day, too. Christmas was inching closer every day, and he had yet to do any Christmas shopping; he could have had Barbara Jr. do it, but he wasn't willing to thrust _every_ responsibility upon her. She was enough of a trooper as it was.

His cell phone rang. He reached for it and answered on instinct; chances were that in another year or two, he's learn to check the caller ID before answering. But not yet.

"Gordon speaking."

"Commissioner."

"Ah, the dulcet tones of my favorite feminista." Gordon settled back into his chair. "What can I do for you, Miss de Burgh?"

"I want information—where are we at with INS? The FBI?"

"Chugging along as efficiently as any bureaucratic organization."

"How soon can we move?"

Gordon frowned. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Gordon, we've got forty-plus women locked into a slum building, being systematically beaten, undernourished, and raped, and as it stands right now, their best hope of rescue lies with a professional escort and a so-called superhero flying rodent who needs therapy._When isn't there a problem?"_

"Fair point." Gordon thought for a second. "Let me get in touch with them, see how soon we can proceed, and what the ramifications will be if we go forward with the raid before all the paperwork has cleared."

"You fucking public servants and your paperwork." He could hear the exasperated smile in Annabeth's voice. "And anyway, have you even planned the raid yet?"

"I don't think it's wise to inform a civilian of that," Gordon said stiffly. He began to throw files into his briefcase.

"Son of a bitch-" Annabeth cut herself short. "Hang on...that's odd."

"What's odd?" Gordon paused, then grabbed another pile of folders. Who knew? If his kids went to bed early enough, he might be able to take a look at them.

There was a pause, and then he heard Annabeth's voice again, puzzled and slightly annoyed. "Shit, there's been a power outage over here in our part of the city. You guys have power?"

Gordon glanced around; all computers, appliances, lights, and machines were humming merrily along, consuming taxpayer money with no compunction. "We're fine...but your phones are digital and connected to your internet, right? So why are you still talking to me?"

"I've got you on my cell. Goddamn, what a shitty time for this to happen—right at dusk. Now I can't see a frigging thing."

He heard silence, and then Annabeth came back on. "Gordon, I'm going to have to call you back. And believe me, I will—we're not done here. We need to get this planned out, _now."_

She hung up before he could respond.

Ten minutes later, she still hadn't called back. And she wasn't answering her cell. And the phones at Safe Haven were all busy. Frowning, Gordon decided to call Detective Montoya.

* * *

Annabeth pocketed her cell phone and stood up. She began groping around the dark, feeling about her desk, until she made contact with the cold, metal cylinder of her Mag-light. She hadn't anticipated being so grateful for cleaning up her office so quickly, but there it was—the old flashlight she had unearthed earlier in the week. Absently she had put it on her desk and hadn't thought of it again.

Until now.

She turned the head, and a thin, feeble light illuminated her office. Amazing, how dark things could get in Gotham once the sun started to set.

Muffled voiced came from the hallway. "Maya?"

"And Zoe," a young, perky voice confirmed.

"Looks like we lost power."

"Looks like it," Maya confirmed. "You know, I was out back earlier, dealing with a delivery, and I saw a couple of Gotham Power and Light Trucks in the alley. They're probably working on some lines and...I don't know, broke something."

"'Broke something?" Annabeth repeated. "Boy, that sounds technical."

"Technical or not, she's probably right." This was Donna's voice. "Maya, go around to the basement service entrance and see if you can't flag them down, let them know they've screwed something up."

"Right you are, boss."

Maya felt her way down the corridor, and to the emergency staircase. There, at least, there was light, and she was able to safely make her way down to the service entrance. She pushed the heavy door open and gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimming twilight. It didn't help matters that dark clouds were beginning to gather.

_Great. More nasty weather._

Then she saw them—two GPL vans, parked towards the end of the alley; one of the men appeared to be examining a meter. Perfect.

"Hey! Hello!"

One or two of the men looked up, and a third one poked his head out of the back of the van. He was the one who clambered out and approached Maya. "Evening...how can I help you?" He had an easy-going, open smile.

"Our power's gone out indoors." Maya gestured to the building. "Any chance some of the work your guys were doing may have had something to do with it?"

The workman frowned. "Hard to say...we were just doing a routine meter-reading, but who knows? Tell you what...I'll have my boys come in and take a look at your breakers. At least that way you won't have to call out an expensive electrician." He turned around and beckoned to one of his colleagues; several of them began to head over.

"Terrific," Maya said gratefully. "Only, one thing...I know it sounds odd, but we'll need you to come in through the front, check in with our security. I know it's silly, but it's procedure. Our guard would be plenty pissed off if we went around him."

"Enh, it's Gotham. What're you gonna do? Everyone has security these days." He shrugged good-naturedly. "But don't worry. We're taking care of him right now."

His words didn't register with Maya immediately. A moment's confusion passed over her face, but as she processed the sinister tone of his words, all traces of the man's friendly manner had disappeared-

To be replaced with a gun.

* * *

Thomas's day shift was nearing its end, and not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned. He loved his girls—as he privately thought of the Safe Haven staff and occupants—and he believed in what they did, but some days could get a little too intense for him. But his relief, Jorge, would arrive in a couple of hours, and then he was free. He fully intended to while the evening away in his local sports bar.

These pleasant reflections came to an abrupt end as the front lobby was plunged into darkness.

It was surprising, but not completely unusual—they had briefly lost power during one of the earlier winter squalls, and Thomas knew that there was supposed to be another coming in. Nonetheless, he reached for his walkie-talkie and buzzed upstairs. "Everything okay, Donna?"

A moment later, her voice crackled on. "We're good—Maya's going to check and see if GPL's monkeying around with the electricity. Stand by."

"Over." Thomas set the walkie-talkie back down and sighed. Of course, it would happen in his last couple of hours. Now he couldn't even read—the only lighting came from the winter twilight that glowed through the lobby doors and windows.

It was still enough light to see the three men approach and enter the lobby. One was tall and thin, the other two shorter and stockier. Thomas grinned as he saw their uniforms.

"Hey! I think someone was just looking for you! We could use some help."

"You have no idea," the tall one answered.

Thomas was quick, but they were quicker; three guns were drawn on him at once.

"This can play any number of ways," one of the other men said. "If you want to come out alive, you'll do just as I say. Understand?"

Silently, helplessly, Thomas nodded.

"Good. First I want you to lock the front doors. Then I want you to give us the keys to the building."

In all of his years of being employed by Safe Haven, Thomas had never encountered anything like this. Irate and angry husbands and boyfriends—sometimes drunk, most of the time non-aggressive, and in all cases, easily overpowered or intimidated. There had never been a gun, let alone three. Slowly, Thomas moved to the front doors; with shaking hands, he started to lock them. And then groaned softly as he saw a woman bound up the steps outside.

The three men behind him melted into the shadows.

* * *

Thankfully, Barbara Gordon had managed to salvage at least part of her day. A leisurely lunch, followed by an impromptu stop at an antiquarian book store, had restored her happy temperament. She had found the perfect Christmas present for her father, too—an early edition of _The Malleus Malificarum. _Barbara was fairly certain he would find the amusement in a book which detailed the most effective methods for torturing people into confessions. Who knew? Maybe it would give him some ideas to pass along to the Batman.

This unlikely scenario gave Barbara a little smile as she dismounted from her motorcycle. She stowed her helmet—as well as her evil purchase—and headed down the sidewalk towards Safe Haven. When Annabeth de Burgh had extended the invitation for Barbara to come check it out, Barbara was fairly certain she hadn't meant _right away, _but she couldn't help it—she was intrigued. Not just by Annabeth—she was attractive, in a rather unremarkable, adult sort of way, but holy cow, her passion was certainly bewitching—but by the entire organization. Barbara hadn't spent many years in the police force, but what she had seen and experienced certainly had firmed up her sense of feminism. So it made sense to get the ball rolling and swing by.

As Barbara walked up the sidewalk, she looked around at her surroundings, the same as she always did. Nothing out of the ordinary...except...she did a double-take and looked at one of the cars parked alongside of the road, across from Safe Haven. Was that...Detective Montoya? Barbara had met the woman a few times before, and her photographic memory confirmed that one of her father's best detectives was here, now.

Interesting.

Nonetheless, Barbara kept on strolling. She was fairly certain Montoya had seen her, but it wasn't any more Montoya's business what Barbara was doing there than it was Barbara's business to know why Montoya was surveilling Safe Haven.

Still, Barbara had a few hunches.

She bounded up the steps to the brownstone bearing the address Annabeth had given her. Just as she reached the front doors and pulled them open, a security guard approached from inside.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, we're just closing up."

Barbara cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the words painted on the glass: "Safe Haven Consulting, Open 24 hrs."

The guard winced, but stayed silent.

"Wouldn't this suck if I were a battered woman?" Barbara pointed out rhetorically.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You'll just have to come back tomorrow. Power's gone out in the area and we have to close up shop."

Barbara nodded slowly, at the same time as she noticed a thin sheen of sweat on the man's brow.

"Please."

It was this last word that decided things for Barbara; she liked to prove a point, but there was no need for her to be obnoxious about it—yet. Who knew? Maybe he just wanted to go home early. She could relate. "Okay, well, it wasn't important, anyway. I can always come back another time." She smiled sweetly at the guard and backed up. "Have a good night!"

She heard the _whoosh_ of the glass door as it slowly shut behind her, and then the rattling as he locked the door. Well, her day really was a bust. Dispirited and annoyed once more, she headed back down the steps and retraced her path to her bike. "Damned waste of time," she muttered. "You don't see anyone else closing up shop when the power goes out in the area."

She glanced up and down the street at the other brownstone businesses, just to underscore her point.

And that was when she saw the lights burning brightly from within the other shops and offices.

The power wasn't out in the area at all.

* * *

Detective Montoya sighed as she checked her watch.

She was one of the ones—one of the few—that didn't question Commissioner Jim Gordon. He told her to jump, she'd ask how high. If he told her to keep quiet about the Batman, well, she'd do that too. And if he told her to organize a surveillance detail on Safe Haven, one of the better-known battered women shelters in Gotham, well, she'd do that too.

But she sure as hell didn't have to like it.

To put it bluntly, it was boring work. Most of the time, very few people went in or out of the building at all. It was an unremarkable assortment of caseworkers, employees, a few intakes, and not much else. A few times, Bruce Wayne (of all people!) had bumbled into the building, looking as though he had come across it more by accident than design. Watching Annabeth de Burgh enter and leave was always amusing—for someone with a pair of short, stubby legs, the woman certainly had a quick stride. And she always looked as though she were looking for the next person to punch. It was really a little bit funny.

On this day, like most others, there was little else to remark upon. A few electricians from the city's power department had gone in, but the one surprising thing was Barbara Gordon showing up, out of the blue.

_Small world._

Montoya was fairly certain that Gordon saw her, but it wasn't something that provoked concern. Gordon's daughter was alright, in her book. Flamboyant, perhaps, yet at the same time—sensible and oddly discreet. She knew when not to ask questions. Anyway, no matter—Gordon left the building almost immediately. But Montoya noticed something curious: the girl didn't head back the same way. Rather, she started down the sidewalk, paused, and then suddenly changed tracks. A moment later, she disappeared down the alley that ran between Safe Haven and the building next to it.

_Odd._

Still, Montoya didn't think of it again...until ten minutes later, when she had every reason to.

* * *

It was remarkable that, despite her many years living in Gotham, Maya had not yet had the experience of having a gun drawn on her. In many peoples' estimation, that was a rite of passage—one that she had been quite happy to forego.

As she stared at the men in front of her, this was the random thought that popped into Maya's head. Strange, perhaps, but then—maybe not, because along with this thought came, naturally enough, a certain disbelief.

_This cannot be happening to me._

She took a step back, fear etching itself onto her pretty features. "What do you want?"

"Not your concern, bitch," snarled one of the men behind the leader. How many were there? It looked like half a dozen...at least.

The leader himself smiled grimly. "I wouldn't move to quickly, if I were you. I've got a fairly good grip on my gun, but some of my friends here are a little more jumpy."

Maya swallowed and forced herself to go still.

"I'm going to make this quite clear. I want you to open that door and let us in."

She was frozen into place. Every instinct in her screamed against this, but no alternatives forced their way into her fear-numbed brain.

"Now." The leader raised the gun and pressed it against Maya's forehead. "Boss said to _try _not to get anyone shot, but he didn't say no way in hell. So you better listen."

Maya brought her hands up in a gesture of submission, but there was no stopping the icy-cold panic which was starting to crush her chest. "Okay, fine," she choked out. "I'm reaching behind me to get the door." She felt the handle and pushed down, silently praying for forgiveness as she did. She felt the door give behind her. "Alright...I'm stepping back into the storeroom..."

"Enough of this shit," the leader sighed. "You're really starting to get on my nerves." He stepped into the dark storeroom and grabbed Maya's arm, roughly. "Move out of the way."

She heard the other men shuffling in behind them, one by one. One by one, flashlights went on. _Holy shit—they were prepared._

This had been planned.

Maya heard the leader's voice. "Your keys—do they lock this door?"

"Yes."

"What are you waiting for? Lock it."

It was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, but there was no choice. With trembling hands, she pushed the heavy storeroom door shut, shutting her away from the cold evening, the rest of Gotham...and relative safety.

Abruptly, the leader shoved Maya against the door, slamming her face against the hard surface. "Give me your keys."

Quickly, she relinquished them.

"Randall, go around and get to the breakers. In five minutes, we want light. When you get back, you stay here by this door. Make sure no one leaves, and no one gets out."

"Right, boss."

Maya stood still in the darkness, praying that no one from Safe Haven would get impatient and come down. What did it matter, though? She knew, without being told, that they would be going up to them soon enough.

But not before the leader had to make a point. "I think when we go up and see your friends, they should know we mean business, don't you think?" He paused, and Maya heard a faint _clunk_ as he set down his gun. "This shouldn't take too long. We just need to leave our mark."

* * *

From where she hid in the alley, peering around the side of the building, Barbara Gordon had a fairly limited vantage point. But what she did see was enough to convince her that something most fishy was going on. She hadn't spent a whole lot of time around battered women's shelters or halfway houses, but she _did _know a group of thugs when she saw one. And no matter which way she stretched her imagination, she couldn't find any reasonable explanation for thugs crowding their way _into_ a women's shelter.

Something very bad was going down; she just didn't know what.

Her brain started making rapid-fire connections.

_Thugs forcing their way in._

_Montoya in front of the building._

_Annabeth worked for Safe Haven._

_Her father had been working with Annabeth on something._

Not only was something very bad going down, but something very BIG was going down.

Barbara turned and darted back out onto the street in front of Safe Haven. If her hunches were correct, there wasn't a second to lose.

* * *

Thomas turned back to the shadows, knowing that the three men had their guns trained on him. Slowly, he held his hands up and away from his body. "The door's locked."

"Who was that at the entrance?" one of the men demanded.

"I don't know...just a woman, She wanted to come in, but I told her we were closed."

"Merciful of you," the tall one drawled. His eyes were cold. "Now that we're all locked up down here, how about you give me the security code to the elevator?"

Thomas glanced down at the gun and nervously moistened his lips. "It won't help, man. Without electricity, security's off-line and the elevator won't work."

Suddenly, there was a shrill _beep _as electricity was restored. The entrance lobby was flooded with light.

"Perfect timing," the tall one smiled. "Now get to work."

Although he had no idea what Maya was enduring at that moment, Thomas was in the same predicament. There was no choice but to betray the security and the occupants of Safe Haven; he knew, with uncanny certainty, that any other alternative would involve his swift demise.

Come to think of it, he wasn't sure that his swift demise wasn't inevitable, anyway.

Nonetheless, he shuffled over to the elevator and keyed in the code, and a moment later, the elevator doors opened. The tall one stepped inside, then turned to face Thomas and the two other intruders, who now stood behind the helpless security guard. He gave one swift nod.

One of the men behind Thomas moved with surprising speed and silence, bringing the butt of his gun down along the back of Thomas's head. He was out in an instant.

"Good," Seth Percival smiled. "Tie and gag him, throw him behind his desk. Turn the lights off down here so it looks like they really _are _closed. Then guard the stairwell and elevator. Make sure no one but our men come in or out. Once we're ready to go, I'll call on the cell. You'll have to go out through the front, but meet us out back where the van is."

"How long should this take?" one of the men asked.

"I hope not long," Seth sighed. "I really don't want to waste my evening on a a bunch of these goddamn women. But it might take a while before we get what we need."

The elevator doors closed, and Seth left the Arrows men to carry out their tasks.

Safe Haven was no longer safe.

* * *

As light suddenly flooded Safe Haven's rooms and corridors, Annabeth smiled in relief. "Thank goodness. I've got at least two more hours of work to do here."

"Tell me about it," Donna sighed. "But I probably lost my computer work. Think you can try to retrieve it?"

Annabeth gave her an exasperated look. "I'm a miracle-worker, maybe, but no computer goddess. But I'll take a look at it."

They had just started down the hall when they heard the _ping _of the elevator.

"Odd," Donna remarked. "I didn't hear Thomas buzz anyone up."

"Maybe the power outage screwed things up," Annabeth shrugged. She was about to add something else, but her words were drowned out as the emergency stairwell door burst open. In shock, she watched as as many as a half-dozen men poured into the hallway. "Oh, sh-"

"Hold still!" the first man bellowed. "Else I'll blow her fucking head off!"

Annabeth watched in cold horror as they thrust Maya to the front of the crowd, her hands raised, a gun held to her head. She was utterly white with fear, and the bruises and blood on her face stood out all the more because of it.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

One of the men shoved her. "Shut it."

"Are you the only ones on this floor?" one of the men demanded.

Donna and Annabeth glanced at each other, but they didn't need a psychic connection to agree that anything less than the truth could be deadly.

"We're it," Donna said tersely.

"Well, let's head upstairs then, shall we?"

_They all had guns. _Things were going from bad to worse. Did Thomas know what was going on? Was anyone hurt? Annabeth struggled to think, to piece together how this could be happening, but her brain was just jumbling random thoughts together.

They shoved Annabeth and Donna over to Maya, and herded the three of them back down the corridor, into the stairwell, and up the stairs. A moment later, they burst out onto the common floor, and confusion reigned supreme.

Until her dying breath, Maya would not forget the terror that followed. One or two of the men actually fired their guns—fortunately not aiming at anyone in particular. The gun fire, the bellowing yells of the men, the screams of the children, and the terror and chaos that erupted as the clients realized what was happening, all seared themselves into her memory.

It was all over in less than a minute: the men were frighteningly efficient, or perhaps simply frightening. Either way, they did their job quickly: twenty women, five children, Maya, Donna, and Annabeth all found themselves clustered together with half a dozen guns drawn on them.

"In here!" barked one of the men. He tore open the door leading to the playroom. "All of you, get in here!"

Some of them went willingly, others stumbled along, in shock; Donna, Annabeth, and the newest client, Bea, were the last to go, and hovered in the doorway. The three of them faced their captors.

"What the hell do you want?" Annabeth demanded.

One of the men smirked, but she wasn't cowed. But before she could say anything else, the elevator _pinged _open, and Seth Percival stepped into the corridor.

Behind her, Annabeth heard Donna's sharp intake of breath. Annabeth didn't spend a moment's thought on it, though; since the weekend at Bellingham, she had considered Percival her sworn enemy, and having him in her presence focused every bit of fear and surprise and forged it into a scorching anger. Blood began to pound in her ears.

"Annabeth de Burgh," Seth smiled. "Why am I not surprised to see you giving my colleagues a hard time?"

_Red. _She was actually seeing red.

"Don't have anything to say for once, do you?" he taunted. "If I had known what it would have taken to shut you up, I would have done this a lot sooner."

Annabeth remained silent—a wise decision, as he appeared to be holding a Sig Sauer, according to her inexperienced eyes. But she held her ground as he approached. Behind her, in the play room, she heard the choked sobs of some of the clients. She had to keep things together for the clients. They had to get out of this. And an icy certainty was starting to creep into her stomach.

Seth smirked. "You know I used to box?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I held my own pretty well. Had a signature left hook. I never went professional with it. But you know—outside of the boxing ring, I never realized mastered all those crazy slangwords. Pimp smack? Bitchslap? Backhand? What are they—different words for the same thing?"

"Seth," Donna said, her voice threatening.

"You _know _him?" Annabeth's voice was half disbelieving, half accusatory as she turned around to face Donna, who dropped her gaze. Confused, Annabeth turned back to Seth, who was waiting.

The _crack _of his hand striking Annabeth's cheek was unnervingly loud in the tense, fearful silence.

"I suspect they're one and the same," Seth decided.

He shoved Annabeth, hard, who stumbled back against Donna and Bea. Surprisingly, it was Bea who steadied Annabeth, and not Donna. Donna was staring at Seth, betrayal in her eyes.

"In there," he said coldly.

There was no choice, of course. Annabeth stumbled into the playroom, followed by Donna, Bea, and then Seth. She tasted blood trickling into her mouth—no doubt Percival was wearing a ring, because her upper lip felt as though it had been split. But despite her own predicament, she still took stock: all of the clients, including the children, were huddled on the floor. Their hands had been bound behind their backs; nonetheless, the men kept their guns trained upon them.

Suddenly, Seth grabbed her elbow and dragged her over to one of the men. "Tie her up, too. And the grandmother. Put 'em in the corner with the others." And then he smiled at Donna. "But not her—not Donna. She gets preferential treatment."

* * *

Deep in the bowels of Wayne Towers, Lucius and Alfred were learning a thing or two.

At present, they were both surrounding Undertow, the powerful computer which was really doing the hard work. After close to an hour of searching, synthesizing, and hacking, they were close to cracking into the sealed files that Alfred had located earlier in the day.

And then they were there.

"Here we go," Lucius said. He and Alfred watched as Undertow hacked, cracked, converted, and brought the files up, in nice, neat PDF format. Lucius read through the documents with more disinterest than Alfred—he had far less knowledge of the current players than did the Wayne family butler—but even he paid more attention as Alfred blurted out the first word that came into his head.

"Bugger."

He stared at the monitor for a moment, stunned.

"Alfred? What is it?" Lucius looked at the monitor, and then again at the butler. "Who are these people?" He peered closer. "I don't understand..."

When Alfred spoke, it was in a voice strangled by surprise—and growing dread. "It's some name change documents, and a driver's license. All records that had been sealed by the courts, god only knows why. Two sets of name changes—one which reflects the change from Susan Stratos to Gretchen Rogers...and the other which reflects Gretchen Rogers' name change after her divorce from Seth Percival. She changed her name to Donna Drake."

"Seth Percival, I know," Lucius said, his voice dripping with disdain. "And you said that Gretchen Rogers...Donna Drake? was married to him. Donna Drake, I've heard of. She's the Director of that shelter Mr. Wayne works with...but Susan Stratos? Doesn't ring a bell."

"It does with me...I read it somewhere, a couple of months back." Alfred swallowed hard. "It was the mother's name on Annabeth de Burgh's birth certificate."

* * *

The goon who was tying Annabeth's hands behind her wasn't taking any pains to be gentle; the nylon rope was burning into her wrists as he tightened the lashings. But that discomfort, the pain in her lip, even the terror for her clients—all of it faded into the background, overshadowed by a certain suspicion that was taking root in her heart.

"What's going on?" she hissed at Donna. The older woman, who had been forced to sit in a rocking chair, just shook her head and watched as Seth and his men clustered by the door and conferred.

Annabeth tried to focus her attention. "Is anyone hurt?" she asked. "Maya?"

Maya shook her head. "I'm fine." But her face was shockingly pale; she had come far too close to death to be fine. "Worry about the others."

"They're fine." This came from Donna. "I don't think they're here to hurt them."

"What makes you think you know that, Donna?" Seth had turned back from his men. "What do you know that you're not telling them?"

Donna bowed her head.

"Donna, what's going on?" Annabeth demanded again.

"Donna, Donna, _Donna," _Seth mocked. "Christ, you sound like a child whining to her mommy. What makes you think she has answers?" He drew closer to Donna, close enough for him to now casually run a finger down the contour of her jaw. "What makes you think she even cares?"

Annabeth's eyes narrowed and glittered dangerously.

"You're so devoted to Donna," Seth went on. "You idolize her, is what I think..."

"Shut up, Seth," Donna said from the rocker.

"_No, you shut up, bitch!"_

He screamed this at Donna, and then turned back to Annabeth. "I'm already getting bored with you. So why don't you just tell me: where's Stacy?"

_Shit. _Annabeth's worst fear was confirmed. They were here for Stacy. No way in hell was she going to give her up, though. And more importantly... "How do you know about Stacy?" she demanded.

"Christ, and they said you were smart." Seth shook his head. "People'll say anything about a woman if she gives decent head. How do we know about Stacy? The same way we found out about all the other bitches you were hiding." He turned to Donna and grinned in triumph as Donna bowed her head in defeat.

* * *

Montoya glanced at her watch and sighed. _Another boring watch. _Dammit, not even an Annabeth sighting lately to keep her amused. Not a sign of activity, really, since the electricians had gone in to the building.

_The electricians._

She glanced at her watch again, frowning this time. How long ago had they gone in there? They hadn't left yet-and didn't most utility workers officially end their shifts by six?

Something wasn't right.

Before she had time to act upon this realization, before she even had the time to curse herself for her own stupid complacency, Montoya realized she was no longer alone. Barbara Gordon was suddenly standing by her car, her face grim. Already half suspecting what was about to happen, Montoya opened the door.

Barbara's voice was tight and commanding. "You'd better get some backup. And call my father."


	44. Chapter 44

With every passing second, Detective Renee Montoya's worth was rising in Barbara's estimation. It didn't hurt that she had followed Barbara's orders without hesitation, calling for back-up as soon as Barbara had shared her observations. It wasn't every day that a cop took directions from a civilian—and that was precisely what Barbara was, no question. She had no illusions about that, even if she did have a propensity for getting involved in the greyer areas of law enforcement.

_Getting involved. _Involuntarily, Barbara smiled. What a tactful way to phrase it.

She watched as Montoya got the Commissioner on the phone...and then listened in, shamelessly.

_Well, maybe I'm not QUITE a civilian._

"It's Montoya. Did you pick up on the frequency? We've got a situation unfolding..." Montoya paused for a moment, listening to the Commissioner on the other end. "They got in as workmen." She chewed her lip, thinking something over. "Fact is, Commissioner, it was your daughter who caught on..."

_Who admits_ _to that? _Barbara listened in amazement as Detective Montoya proceeded to possibly commit career suicide. For the first time, she found herself wondering if her father weren't doing his job a little too well—was there such a thing as a _too-_honest cop?

This perplexing question of weighty ethical implications didn't stand a chance of achieving further exploration, at least at the moment. Montoya abruptly terminated the call and turned back to Barbara. "Is it at all remarkable or even relevant that your father didn't even bother to _ask_ how the hell you're involved?"

Barbara smiled crookedly but didn't answer this question. Instead, she said, "You didn't have to tell him it was me who caught on. I wouldn't have ratted you out."

Montoya was checking her gun. "I respect your father too much to lie to him. Besides, I deserve to be in hot water for letting things get this far." She glanced over at Barbara. "Stay here."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm checking the area to see if any other assholes are around." For a brief moment, Montoya's professional voice faltered just a little, and Barbara caught the sound of the genuine Gothamite that she was. "God only knows how many of them got in—we didn't even bother to surveil the service entrance in the alley. _Dammit—_even with your father arguing, the higher ups wouldn't spare the extra men."

Barbara watched as Montoya crossed the street and disappeared into the shadows.

In the distance, sirens began to howl.

* * *

In the years that had passed since Alfred had assisted Master Wayne with taking on the mantle of the bat, the butler had learned a great deal.

_Never be complacent._

_Never give up hope._

_Always be prepared._

To that end, he had long ago arranged with Lucius to have a certain amount of equipment available at Wayne Towers—a couple of suits, of course; some well-maintained weaponry and an extra utility belt; emergency medical supplies...and for Alfred's benefit, as much as Gotham's, a police frequency scanner.

It crackled to life as he struggled to overcome the shock he was experiencing over the hacked computer files. He hadn't had time, even, to call Master Wayne and convey this latest bizarre twist, but from the sounds of it, there were other problems at hand.

"_Request all available units to 28920 Madison Ave. Potential hostage situation unfolding."_

"That's Safe Haven," Alfred whispered.

* * *

The Tumbler was silently moving through the back streets of Gotham, heading in the direction of Safe Haven, when the Batman picked up on the same police transmission that had alerted Alfred and Lucius.

_Safe Haven._

What was the time? Six? Closer to seven? What were the chances that Annabeth had gone home by then? He caught himself wondering this, and briefly felt ashamed. Putting Annabeth before everyone and everything else—understandable, of course, but not something the Batman could allow of himself.

_Dammit._

A sudden rage, rare for him these days, welled up inside of him. _Goddamn Gotham. _In that moment, he could have happily razed the entire city to the ground. Fortunately, the moment passed, and the Batman quickly centered his thoughts, his focus, his entire being. Annabeth _could_ be in danger, but from the sounds of it, others were _definitely_ in danger.

The beast took over, and the Tumbler charged forward through the night.

* * *

Barbara was surprised.

It had been a long time since she had seen any action, other than when she had meddled in the Batman's affairs. A few years had passed since her time on the force, and she suddenly realized how much she missed it. It wasn't something she allowed herself to think about often—she was a pretty decided kind of woman, didn't allow herself to look back or wallow in regret, so for one moment she was taken aback by the fire and adrenaline surging through her. It hadn't been like this when she had helped the Batman before—but then, before, she wasn't as aware of the people who needed help. Before, she had aided the Batman...now, she was aiding actual people.

The sirens were coming closer, and she found herself praying that they were heralding the coming of clean cops. Cops her father trusted.

She glanced down and up the street—and then did a double-take. There was a person coming down the sidewalk, heading towards Safe Haven, and there was something about the slouching, shuffling gait that seemed familiar. And then Barbara realized—it was the girl, Stacy, who had been with Annabeth de Burgh at MCU a few days back.

_Shit._

Barbara didn't even bother to pause and wonder why Stacy wasn't in Safe Haven, experiencing potentially mortal danger along with all the others. In fact, the only thing that Barbara was thinking about was that, since Stacy had been with Annabeth at MCU, meeting with her father, somehow she had to be tied into all of this. And she was about to try to step back into the place which had suddenly become very dangerous.

Suddenly, gunfire rung out in the night.

Both Barbara and Stacy froze in place.

_Sounds like a Sig...not a GPD gun. Montoya could be hurt._

But Stacy was precariously close to walking into a situation that had very possibly just turned deadly. _Who to help?_

Her indecision lasted less than two seconds. She didn't carry a gun any more, so rushing in and trying to help Montoya could end up with her getting killed. Stacy it was, then.

Another volley of gunfire erupted, but to Barbara's experienced ears, it sounded like a different shot, a Glock—which Barbara knew was standard issue for Gotham cops. Her instincts told her that it was Montoya, still alive and giving as good as she got. Praying that her instincts—and her uncanny ability to identify the sound of firearms—were sound, Barbara began to head towards Stacy.

The decision now made, both adrenaline and momentum kicked in. Barbara barreled up the sidewalk, her long, skinny legs easily carrying her with gratifying swiftness. She had been a runner all throughout primary and secondary school, and she could still haul ass. She was determined to intercept Stacy before she got any closer to Safe Haven and the clusterfuck that was unfolding within.

"What the fuck?" Stacy exclaimed as the tall, skinny form of Barbara Gordon practically bowled her over. "Watch it!"

Barbara grabbed Stacy's arm. "You're coming with me."

Alarmed and confused, Stacy began to pull away, but then, suddenly, she recognized Barbara from the other day. "What's going on...?"

Yet another salvo of gunshots resounded. Barbara ducked to the sidewalk, hauling Stacy down with her.

"It's trouble, that's what. You don't want to be here."

Stacy cocked her head. "Are those sirens coming for us?"

Barbara realized that the cops were almost there. And then she remembered all of the times her father had questioned the loyalty of his forces. "I'm not sure who they're coming for...but we don't want to be here anyway." She rose from where they were crouching, and pulled Stacy up with her. "I'm getting you out of here, _now_."

Any protest Stacy might have been formulating died abruptly as one final shot—again, Barbara suspected from Montoya—cracked into the night. The two females darted for Barbara's motorcycle, and a few moments later, an engine roared to life.

Less than two minutes later, three police units had arrived on the scene, and Montoya had emerged from the alleys, unscathed but in full battle mode.

And there was no more Barbara to be seen.

* * *

Within Safe Haven, Seth Percival was raising hell.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he screamed at one of his previously indistinguishable goons. "Jesus christ, why don't you just _call _the cops and let them know we're here? We were supposed to go unnoticed as long as possible."

"But boss," the man pointed out—not unreasonably—" I saw some bitch nosing around on the street below. I think she was a cop. So I thought-"

"You'd blast the window out and miss the cop?" Seth stared at him in disgust. "Now the whole neighborhood knows shit's going down._And _it's goddamned cold."

That was true. The bitter night air was fingering its way in. Coupled with the terror that gripped Annabeth and the rest of the hostages, the cold was making things extremely uncomfortable.

Since Seth Percival's demoralizing revelation that it had been Donna who had been selling them out, Annabeth had remained subdued, no doubt trying to process this information and come to grips with this sudden, dangerous turn of events. But now, "Why are you doing this?" Annabeth burst out. "You want _one _person—so why are you terrorizing all of us?"

Seth knelt down beside Annabeth. Too late, Annabeth recalled her promise to Bruce, made a scant few hours ago. _So much for lying low and keeping out of trouble._

Of course, neither of them had considered that perhaps trouble would come looking for Annabeth.

Seth's lip curled in disgust as he regarded Annabeth. "You just never shut up, do you?" With disturbing calmness, he placed the barrel of his gun against the side of Annabeth's head.

"SETH!" Donna shrieked.

He ignored her and continued to talk to Annabeth in that cold, quiet voice. "We break into your little girl-power ghetto. We tie you up, we threaten to kill you...and you still keep on talking back." He glanced over his shoulder at Donna, who still sat in the rocking chair, quivering with helpless rage. And then he turned back to Annabeth and continued.

"Of course, why am I surprised? You certainly _are _your mother's daughter."

* * *

In a gratifyingly brief period of time, a large number of GCPD patrol cars had responded to Montoya's dispatch for back-up. By the time Gordon arrived, five units had converged on the street in front of Safe Haven, and another four showed up after him.

"How bad is it?" he asked Montoya

She shook her head. "No idea—I saw at least three go in the front, but-"

"But the Arrows wouldn't go in with so few."

Both Gordon and Montoya turned around to face the source of the new voice; where there had been only darkness before, the Batman now stood. "We can be sure they brought in plenty of muscle. We need to go with the worst-case scenario."

"And now there's a hostage situation, probably a bad one." Gordon glanced over at Safe Haven. "No one's answering phones within the building...Montoya, it's time to call in a negotiator." Gordon glanced over at the Batman, but he was already gone.

Again.

* * *

Time was running out. The Batman understood that Gordon would have to try official channels first, but it didn't mean that _he _had the same obligation.

There was little time to act, and even less time to think. He moved even faster than usual, scaling and shimmying and not even bothering with stealth—at least until he made it to the rooftop of Safe Haven. With any luck—and god knew they needed some—the intruders hadn't paid any mind to the roof access...he tugged at the door which led into the building, felt the pull of the lock. _Locked from the inside._

Not a problem at all. He raised his gauntleted arm and struck, and the entire doorknob fell to the ground, lock and all. What was left of the door swung open, easily enough.

His luck, for once, held. No one came rushing out...which meant he could go rushing in, at least initially unnoticed.

But not yet.

He began removing items from his utility belt—items which had, until tonight, been stowed away in the Tumbler, awaiting their day. Or night, as the case may be.

Swiftly, he laid out the essential equipment—six tiny, mechanical devices, followed by a remote control and one small monitor. He powered on each device, one by one, and watched in satisfaction as the tiny devices sprang to life, unfurling tiny, fluttering mechanical wings and rising into the air, their red eyes glowing. They were tiny surveillance cameras, disguised as bats.

He snatched the remote control and began to dictate the bats' movements. _Eager little buggers, _as no doubt Alfred would say. He directed the bat-cams through the busted-open door and watched them disappear into the unknown darkness.

And then he returned to the portable viewing monitor. Before, it had been blank, but now, with the cameras in action, the monitor burst to life with six tiny, slightly grainy images appearing—six live images of the interior of Safe Haven, transmitted wirelessly from the miniscule cameras residing in the bats' eyes. _Another successful invention from the workshop of Lucius Fox._

Six floors, six bat cameras.

Floors six, five, and four appeared clear, although it was impossible to say for certain, with many doors being shut. The first floor bat-cam revealed the prostrate form of Thomas; whether or not he was alive or dead, the grainy image didn't reveal. In the stairwell leading from the first to the second floor, two men, presumably Archers, lurked, prepared to fight anyone foolish enough to storm the building. The second floor appeared to be clear.

And then, another stroke of luck. On the third floor, the intruders had not completely barricaded themselves off. The third-floor bat-cam gained access to all of the public rooms, including the playroom, where everyone was. The camera transmitted everything to the Batman—Donna in the rocking chair, the clients crowded, bound, into one corner, the four Archers keeping guard over them...and Seth Percival, holding a gun to Annabeth's head.

* * *

"You look confused," Seth said to Annabeth. "You know, I suspect you didn't have the opportunity to head a lot of bed-time stories. In fact, I _know _it." He stroked the side of Annabeth's face with the cold gun muzzle. "Let me try to make amends."

"Fuck you."

"Once upon a time, there lived a little princess. Her mommy loved her, but her daddy was a very bad man. And her mommy was very unhappy. But one day, her mommy met a knight who offered to make everything better—to take the mommy away to another, magical place. But of course, the knight didn't want to be saddled with someone else's brat, so mommy left her little princess behind." Seth glanced over at Donna and smiled. "We all can guess what happened to the little princess, can't we? That's you, Annabeth. But what about the mommy?"

"Why should I give a damn?" Annabeth spat. "What's it got to do with me?"

"Everything, you stupid bitch." Seth paused. "Where was I? Oh. Yes. So the mommy moved away with her knight and came to a new kingdom, and even took a new name, and everything. She always missed her princess, but she always loved her knight more. Or so she said.

"Years passed. The mommy still loved her knight—but the knight no longer loved her. He wanted a _queen—_and the mommy that he rescued was really nothing more than a pretty peasant. And so he left her to find himself a queen. And what do you know—the mommy followed him right back to where they had first met! She begged him, not to take her back, but to help her find her princess. So he did—but the princess was still lost to her.

"More years passed. The knight became a king. And believe it or not, the mommy began to build up her own kingdom, but her little princess wasn't part of it. And then one day she learned that some vagabonds had hurt her princess...but that they wouldn't be punished. So, once more, she returned to her one-time knight and begged for his help...swore undying fealty, only if he brought vengeance to the men who hurt her princess."

Despite the horror of her current predicament, despite the terrible things Seth was saying, Annabeth willed back the memories of what had gone before. Anything, even this horror, was preferable to remembering that night.

"The knight agreed, and so he brought balance back. One by one, he killed the vagabonds. And everyone moved on." Seth stared hard at Annabeth until she looked back at him. "Some more than others. But a knight never forgets a debt owed. And so for years he watched the mommy and her princess. He waited. He watched as the mommy secretly watched her princess grow into a woman and brought her into the little kingdom she had built. He watched as they worked together, he watched and saw that the princess knew nothing, remembered nothing. He watched and decided it was time to collect his debts."

No one—none of the clients, none of their children, or Donna or Annabeth or Maya—uttered a sound. And so spellbound were they all, even the Archers, that no one noticed the tiny bat fluttering through the room.

"The princess only knew the name of her mommy from her birth certificate. She only knew her as Susan Stratos. She never knew that Susan had changed her name when she had first moved from the kingdom of Gotham, and she never knew that she changed it again when she moved back. And so the princess had no way of knowing that that name was Donna Drake, Queen of Safe Haven." Seth glanced over at Donna. "Does that cover everything—_Mommy?"_

"Goddamn you, you sick son of a bitch." Donna whispered this with the deepest venom.

Annabeth remained silent.

Seth shook his head. "Now that I think about it, that's not quite the end of the story. I forgot something...oh yes, the debt. Donna, you're about paid up, I think, aren't you? Jeana, Carrolly, Renee..._They _were actually the ones who paid your debt...and now Stacy. And _then _we'll be all settled."

"We'll never be all settled." Annabeth spat this out. Her stomach was roiling with betrayal and fear, but her mind was absolutely focused. She wasn't going to look at Donna—or whoever this woman was—and she wasn't about to give Seth fucking Percival any satisfaction. The only thing that mattered was getting all of them out of this fucked-up situation whole and alive. "You've had your fun," she continued. "I know you've got a beef with me. So work with me. Don't work with _them." _She jerked her head over to the clients. "Let them out of here and we'll talk about Stacy."

Seth smiled, as though struck by a sudden and pleasing inspiration. "Say please."

"That's how you want to play it, Seth? Fine. You want me to beg? I don't mind." Annabeth struggled from her seated position—no easy feat, considering how tightly her hands were bound behind their back. She struggled to her knees and looked up at Seth. "Please."

* * *

The Batman had seen enough. He directed the bats back through the building and onto the roof, packed up his gear, and quickly made his way back down to Gordon.

"So glad you decided to join us again," Gordon said. "The negotiator's on her way."

"We don't need her. We can finish this, but we need to move quickly...there are two men in the stairwell between the first and second floor, and there's another five on the third floor, holed up with the women, in the playroom..."

* * *

Seth was enjoying himself.

"Please, Seth, I'm begging you. Let them go."

For a moment, he appeared to be considering Annabeth's words. "You know what? I don't think you'd tell me shit." He glanced over at Donna. "But I bet Mommy will." He released the safety on his gun.

"Goddamn it, Seth, leave her alone! _Stacy's not even here!" _Donna screamed.

Seth cocked an eyebrow. "Either you're selling out your girls _again, _or you're lying. And I am not inclined to believe you. One of these girls is Stacy, and you're hiding it."

"It's true," Annabeth said. "She took off hours ago." She swallowed and glanced upward towards the gun.

"Well, she'd better hurry up and get back...people are going to get hurt, otherwise."

"You wouldn't." Donna almost seemed to be whispering this to reassure herself. "You _wouldn't."_

Without warning, Seth lowered his gun slightly and pulled the trigger. The shot roared loudly throughout the room, drowning out the startled cries from the women and children in the room.

Annabeth crumpled to the floor.

"You really want to test my resolve on this one?"

* * *

Gordon and the Batman were finalizing their plan of attack when they heard the gunshot.

Time had run out...and maybe their luck, too.

"Cut the power!" Gordon shouted into his walkie-talkie. "Have the medics on stand-by."

The Batman was already on the move. "Three minutes—and then come in through the front entrance."

* * *

Neither Seth nor any of his men attempted to stop Donna as she rushed to Annabeth's prostrate body. She pulled Annabeth's body over and moaned softly as she saw the crimson blood blossoming onto her blouse.

"Stomach and chest wounds," Seth said softly. "A blessing and a curse. If you miss vital organs and arteries, you don't die right away...ah, see?"

Annabeth's eyes were now open—clouded with pain and shock, but alert and staring up at Donna.

"Like I said, they don't die right away. But they will die—painfully-if they don't get medical attention quickly. So...if our friend Stacy shows up soon, little Annabeth here might make it. But...if she keeps us waiting...well, what's one more dead bitch? There's plenty more where she came from."

* * *

Once more, the Batman was on the roof—only this time, it was because _he, _and not his bat-cams, was accessing Safe Haven.

Long ago, he had lost count of the instances in which he had been up against the wall, out of time, do or die. Only once before had the stakes personally been so high...

….and that one time hadn't gone so well.

_No. _He couldn't think about that. Those were the thoughts of Bruce Wayne, and they had no business in his awareness now, clouding his judgment, hindering whatever movements or execution of choices he would have to make. Bruce Wayne could not do what needed to be done.

He had no idea what had just happened—no idea who, if anyone, had been shot, but the fact remained that people were in danger. The only chance for this danger to pass and leave everyone unscathed would be if he left Bruce Wayne behind; he could only be the Batman now. Thinking of the personal stakes would only get people killed.

He took one deep breath, and as he did so, he left go of all thoughts of past and future, Rachel and Annabeth, hope and fear. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, all of Bruce was gone.

Only the Batman remained.

* * *

Within the playroom, hope was quickly fading, replaced by a horrible, suffocating tension, and an even greater fear. Most of the adult clients had realized by now that this was a situation that was not going to end quickly or well; this realization was underscored by Annabeth's slightly labored breathing and the choked sobs emanating from Donna as she knelt over Annabeth.

Each and every one of the men who had accompanied Seth on his hostile takeover now remained impassive, seemingly indifferent to the woman who was dying on the floor in front of them. They simply stood, silently, their guns visible and at the ready. Of the people they were terrorizing, only Maya remained completely calm and focused—much to her own surprise. Along with everyone else, she had listened to Seth's story with a sick sense of betrayal and confusion growing within her, but that was beside the point. The main point was that, if someone didn't act quickly, Annabeth was going to die. And she might not be the only one.

What Maya did next took a tremendous amount of courage. Up until that point, she had been just another one of the women, ignored by Seth. To speak up would be to attract his attention, and quite possibly, his ire. But it had to be done.

"Donna," she said softly.

Donna didn't hear her, which wasn't surprising. It appeared that she had gone to a completely different place, haunted by god only knew what.

"_Donna." _Maya said it louder. It was vital to get her attention. It certainly got Seth's attention; he had been seemingly transfixed by the physical agonies of Annabeth and the mental anguish of Donna. Now, he turned and regarded Maya. She could only imagine what he saw: just one of the many females in the room, bound like the rest. Expendable, no doubt. But now that she was speaking, she was unafraid. "Donna, you need to help Annabeth. You're the only one that can do anything right now."

For a moment, Maya was uncertain that her words had penetrated Donna's brain. But after a moment, Donna lifted her head. "What can I do?"

Maya glanced at Seth. He shrugged gleefully. "Do whatever you want, Donna. It won't make a difference one way or the other if your little Stacy doesn't show up soon."

_Asshole. _Maya restrained herself from screaming this, and instead struggled to recall anything about basic first aid she had ever been taught. "You need to staunch the bleeding."

Fear had robbed Donna of all power of independent thought. "How?"

"Your sweater. Take it off, use it!" Maya watched as Donna slowly struggled out of the cashmere sweater she had worn over her blouse that day. "Now put direct pressure on the wound." Even as she said it, a detached part of her brain was registering surprise. _This is basic first aid. Anyone knows this._

Donna was not handling things well.

Whatever crazy shit it was that Seth had been spouting, Maya didn't like to think about it. She knew Donna was closed-mouthed about her past; she knew that Annabeth had no family...but whether or not Donna was actually Annabeth's _mother? _Logic told her to disbelieve, but Donna's near-paralyzed state of shock was telling her something else entirely.

Nonetheless, Donna was following her instructions, and that was something at least.

"What else?" she asked Maya. Her eyes were those of a desperate person.

_Shit. That creep is telling the truth. Annabeth is her daughter. _"Nothing else, Donna...we have to wait."

Seth laughed. "Yes, Donna. You have to wait...but for how long? That's really the question, isn't it?"

Suddenly, the lights flickered, and then went off completely. The room was plunged into darkness, with the only light filtering through the broken window from the streetlights outside.

Seth laughed into the darkness. "This just gets better and better. I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you, ladies. This doesn't mean that someone's coming to rescue you."

"You think _we're _the stupid ones?" Maya spat. "You heard the same sirens we did. This whole place is surrounded by cops. How the hell do you expect to get out of here?"

Seth snorted. "In this city? With _these _cops? Who are you kidding? Half of those men out there probably will _help _us leave. You think anyone gives a damn about you?" He glanced over at the rest of the women. "You're pathetic, all of you. No one gives a shit—you're_nothing, _just a waste of space and air. There's not one single man here to help you!"

He abruptly paused in his tirade and watched as Annabeth began to struggle to sit up. Despite Donna's hands pressing against her wound, she managed to pull herself up a little. She appeared to be trying to say something.

That cruel smile was back in Seth's face. "What's that?"

"I said," Annabeth managed to wheeze out, "then who the hell is that?"

The look on Seth's face was almost comical as he jerked around in sudden confusion—but the look quickly disappeared as an enormous fist smashed into his face. Any opportunity that Seth had to see the man who was unafraid to stand up for Safe Haven was completely obliterated as the Batman efficiently and ruthlessly knocked him into the deepest throes of unconsciousness.

* * *

In the darkness, it was impossible to get a very good glimpse of what was unfolding. Between the yells from Seth's men, now leaderless; the screams and cries of the women and children; the grunts and occasional painful-sounding thuds and crunches that came from the fighting machine who had abruptly made his entrance, and then, at long last, the shouts from Gordon and his team as they made their way in through the front of the building, there was little sense of anything except utter chaos. Instinctively, Maya threw herself back amongst the women in the corner, trying to stay as far away as possible from any of the fighting or potential gunshots; she found herself praying for the first time in...well, _ever.._.that this would end with no one dead.

_Let this end soon._

And it did. For Maya, for Donna, for every other woman in the room, and especially for Annabeth, it seemed to drag on forever, but in reality, the Batman made short work of the men who had been terrorizing them. Maya had never put much stock into what she regarded as the urban myth of the Batman, but that night, her entire perception changed. Not only did she now believe he actually existed, but she knew beyond a whisper of doubt that he was On Their Side.

As suddenly as they had gone off, the lights came on once more, again bewildering many of them. Maya found herself staring in amazement at the now-subdued and unconscious men who had, up until a few moments ago, held death over their heads. She stared at the strange and wondrous Batman, she stared at the cops swarming the room and running to their aid, she stared at Commissioner Gordon, bellowing for immediate medical assistance. She stared at Donna, her hands and most of her front now soaked in Annabeth's blood. She stared and tried to process everything, and to grasp that this horrifying situation appeared to be over.

Except..._it didn't feel over._

She struggled to figure out what it was. She tried hard, but the adrenaline in her system was ebbing away, leaving her silent and pliable as one of the cops began to undo her bindings and ask her _was she okay? Was she hurt at all? _Numbly she shook her head, distracted and looking the medics working on Annabeth; at Donna, now moaning and rocking back and forth, at the Batman, silently watching it all.

Something didn't feel right. Something was...off.

_Focus. _Maya forced to listen to the words swirling around her.

"...need to get these dickweeds into custody..." This came from the beefy cop, a strapping specimen of a man whose badge read "Bullock."

"...appears to be penetrating abdominal trauma...going into hemorrhagic shock..." These awful words were being exchanged by the grim-faced EMTs.

"There's a security guard that needs medical attention...we need to make sure the building's secure..." Gordon was barking this at the cops still swarming in.

_Yes—that's it. _The thing that wasn't over. Cold dismay washed over Maya as she remembered the one other man who had come in, the one that Seth had told to remain in the basement. But even as she realized it, as her mouth struggled to overcome her shock and speak the horrible words, she realized it was too late. Suddenly, he was there, that first man, stampeding into the room, against all reason slipping past the swarming masses of cops.

The gunshots took them all by surprise. Before the cop who was helping Maya threw her down to the floor and relative safety, she caught a brief glimpse of a most curious thing—the Batman throwing himself towards Annabeth. But then, too, she saw Donna, suddenly doing the same.

And it was Donna who caught the bullets.

It had been chaos before, but now it was absolute pandemonium. Commissioner Gordon was attempting to resuscitate Donna, but it didn't take any sort of expert to see that she was, emphatically, dead: three bullet wounds, one to the throat, one to the chest, and one to the side of her head, had taken care of her. One of the other cops quickly took over the useless CPR; the Commissioner needed to attend to other matters. Meanwhile, Bullock and Montoya had tackled the last Archer who had eluded them all through their own negligence; several cops were attempting to make themselves heard over the terrified screams of the children. And amazingly, the EMTs continued working. With absolute concentration and cold-hearted pragmatism, they had resumed work on Annabeth as soon as the gunman was tackled, and as soon as they saw Donna's body.

And that was when the Batman realized—for Annabeth,_ there was still hope._

In fact, Annabeth was conscious. Her eyes were wide open, gazing up at the many people who seemed to loom above her. From the way her eyes darted around, it was clear she was looking for someone.

And then her eyes came to rest on the Batman, and beside him, Gordon.

Again, she was trying to say something. Her voice was inaudible amidst all of the other noise in the room, and as Gordon and the Batman both drew closer, one of the EMTs snapped at them both. "Give her air-" he glanced up and realized who he was talking to, but he held firm. "She needs air."

"_No." _Annabeth managed to say. "_No."_

"Ma'am, try to stay calm," said the paramedic. To his EMT colleague, he said, "We need to get her to the hospital _now."_

"Here's the stretcher," Gordon said. He backed up, pulling the Batman with him as two more EMTs came in, wheeling the stretcher. With amazing speed, they lifted Annabeth onto the stretcher; it was then that the Batman and Gordon saw that she was still bleeding. As the medics went to work strapping her in, inserting tubes, and generally saying ominous things, Annabeth managed to throw out a hand. She gripped the Batman's arm and looked up at him and Gordon.

"It's gone to hell. Find Stacy—and get to Trinity. Get to all of them."

There was no opportunity to say anything else. The medics were done cooperating with anyone; their job was to help the patient, and the Commissioner and his friend weren't doing anyone any favors. Even more medics had arrived, and were working on the hopeless case of what was once Donna Drake, Director of Safe Haven, and mother of Annabeth.

As the Batman watched as the medics began to navigate Annabeth's stretcher out of the room, Gordon turned to him. "Think things might be getting a little too warm in here?"

His reference had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the fact that more and more people were flooding in, and with each extra person, the likelihood that they were sympathetic to the Batman dropped more and more.

Reluctantly, the Batman tore his mind away from Annabeth. She had made her wishes known—_hell,_ they were practically orders. With what might have been her dying breaths, she had told him what she expected of him—and it was nothing more or less than what he should do. Once more, Annabeth had made a sacrifice to Gotham.

"I'll get over to the Narrows," the Batman said.

Gordon nodded. "I'm going to get in contact with the Feds. If possible, just keep an eye on the situation up there until I can get plenty of back-up—"

"People you trust, I hope."

"As much as anyone can be trusted," Gordon said, and there was no disguising the bitterness in his voice. "Montoya, you're coming with me. Bullock?"

The heavy-set cop looked up from the Archer to whom he had been giving his Miranda rights. He cast a foul look at the handcuffed man, finished his speech a little hastily, and then sauntered over to Gordon. "Yeah, Commish?"

"Head up the investigation here. Take statements, make sure everyone gets medical attention, you know the drill. Then I want you to find Stacy. Talk with the women, see if you can get an idea of where she would have gone. Find her, stay with her, and fucking shoot to kill anyone that comes close that we don't trust." Gordon was aware of Bullock, Montoya, and the Batman all staring at him, taken aback by his abnormally aggressive words. "I mean it. I'm tired of this shit, tired of these thugs running our city and making life hell for too many people. It's time we give a little hell back to them."


	45. Chapter 45

All around Gotham, people were in a rush.

Montoya was one of these people, driving her patrol car through the city, sirens blaring, no speed too fast. She was hunched over the wheel, tense, anxious, ridden with guilt, and listening to Commissioner Gordon as he bellowed into his phone. They were headed to the Narrows, headed into some sort of trouble, but Montoya had to live with the fact that she had played no small part in bringing on a lot of the problems that were even now unfolding.

"I don't _care _what kind of budget issues your department is having!" Gordon snarled. "We need your most trusted agents, Abilene, and we need them now. And we need for them to be people that can work well with...outside agencies, other than us."

_Outside agencies. _Despite the seriousness of the situation, Montoya permitted herself a grim smile. _Right. The Batman's an "outside agency."_

"We need cooperation, Abilene. And don't forget, there are forty-plus innocent people.._..I DON'T CARE IF THEY AREN'T U.S. CITIZENS!"_

Montoya glanced at Gordon, alarmed.

"We're working with INS, that should be enough for you and your agents. It's not your job to prosecute and victimize people _you _perceive to be illegal aliens. You're there to bust a human-trafficking and drug-dealing gang." Suddenly, Gordon pulled the phone away from his head. "Dammit, why's my daughter keep calling?" It was a question for which there was no answer, so he continued his conversation. "Abilene, I'll see you and your agents there. A block south, no lights, unmarked cars. This won't go south—not on my watch." With that, he terminated the call.

"They coming?" Montoya deftly navigated the car around a couple of slowpokes Thank goodness, the drivers were actually respecting the sirens tonight.

"They're coming," Gordon affirmed. "They're not thrilled about it, but they're coming. God only knows who's going to be in charge. And we still haven't firmed up stuff with INS."

"And one of the strongest women's rights advocates and one of our most relied-upon shelters are both presently out for the count," Montoya added. "This could get dodgy."

"Detective, I think we hit _dodgy_ back when I first shook Annabeth de Burgh's hand. We're working with a vigilante and a couple of dubious Feds to provide protection for forty illegal aliens. I haven't actually _met _the Feds we'll be working with, and the more I talk with them, the more I think there's something off about them."

"Fantastic. Off, how?"

Gordon struggled to formulate his thoughts. "For lack of a better way to describe them, an incompetent Scully and Mulder, except... I get the impression these folks don't take their job as seriously."

The two fell into tense silence as Gordon resumed worrying and Montoya focused on the traffic.

Finally, Montoya found the courage to speak what was on her mind. "Commissioner, I'm sorry. I'm fully aware that a lot of this could have been prevented...I got lax..."

Gordon grimaced. "Montoya, it was probably only a matter of time. They've been wanting to get their hands our witness for a while. Were you negligent? Probably. It'll likely earn you a reprimand. But you're one of _my _cops, and no one at MCU is going to rough you up too much. Not on my watch. You're still young, you're learning. Mistakes happen, and god knows, my personnel file is full of 'em." He glanced over and managed a reassuring smile. "And my biggest offense isn't even documented."

Kind words, but it didn't alleviate Montoya's guilt. Still, no officer worth their salt escaped their careers without some measure of guilt, deserved or not. After a moment, she cleared her throat and tried to focus. "I just hope Bullock finds Stacy soon. Have you heard from him?"

"Nothing yet," Gordon sighed. "He's still probably down at Safe Haven...we need to find Stacy, but there's just..." he didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. Montoya knew exactly what the problem was.

There just wasn't enough people they trusted.

* * *

Annoyed, Barbara Gordon ended the phone call...again. Four times she had tried to call her father, and four times, he had failed to answer. This was _highly _unusual. Jim Gordon was as devoted to his family as he was to his job, and he almost always answered his phone. _Dammit._

Before she emerged from the corner where she had been huddled, she carefully arranged her face into an unconcerned expression—it wouldn't do for Stacy to see her so worried. And maybe there wasn't anything to be worried about. They were in the safest place that she could think of.

When she had parked her motorbike outside, even Stacy had balked. "A _bar? _You brought me to a bar?" The younger girl had gazed in surprise at The Alleycat, which looked every bit as seedy and dive-y as it actually was.

Barbara had removed her helmet and smoothed down her punkish hair. "I trust just about everyone in here. I think you're probably safest in a crowd, and these are my people. Shut up and get inside."

So inside they were. Barbara had installed Stacy at the bar, right under the watchful eye of Bryce, her favorite bartender; while Bryce chatted the girl up and showed her his tattoos, Barbara went about the business of trying to run her father to earth. The first time he hadn't answered, she hadn't been concerned; the second time, red flags started to go up in her brain, and by the third time, she forced herself to face up to the unpleasant realization that things had probably gotten pretty ugly up at Safe Haven.

_Just as well I got Stacy out of there._

Now she settled herself down at the bar and accepted the mug of coffee Bryce had offered her without being asked. "Thanks, dude."

"Anytime." Bryce jerked his head towards Stacy, who was now playing pool, very ill indeed, with a couple of the regulars. "She a sister of yours or something?"

"Hell no. Perish the thought." Barbara didn't extrapolate, however, and he didn't pry.

"Yo, Bryce!" Stacy hollered from where she stood, cue in hand. "How 'bout another?"

Bryce rolled his eyes heavenward, got the look of confirmation from Barbara, and fished another bottle from the cooler. "I think this might be the last one. Not much call for it around here...think she's going to figure out it's nonalcoholic?"

Barbara peered over her shoulder and contemplated Stacy. "Doubtful."

She was beginning to suspect that it was going to be a long evening.

* * *

Gordon and Montoya weren't the only people rushing through Gotham that evening. The Tumbler was doing its own particular brand of rushing, although it was much more quiet and behind the scenes than any GCPD car. It was on auto-pilot, which gave the Batman a few brief, but nonetheless painful, moments to regroup. As soon as the Tumbler slipped away from the chaos of Safe Haven, he did a damage assessment; none to speak of, thankfully. Whatever few blows the Archers had managed to land on him came more through accident than design, and none of them registered past the protection of his armor. So he was safe.

Of course, knowing this only underscored that someone else wasn't.

_Back away from that thought._

He didn't want to think about Annabeth right then; it drove him dangerously close to a very bad mental place—but then he glanced down at his forearm and saw the dull gleam of blood. When she had gripped his arm, she had left a smear of blood there. And then he remembered: her hands had been covered in it. Her wound had looked very bad, and he was very well aware of the fact that stomach wounds were dangerous under the best of circumstances.

And he couldn't be there. Instead, he was charging through the night, on his way to put out yet another metaphorical fire that burned through Gotham, emitting smoke that was too faint for anyone "important" to see.

But he saw it. He saw it because Annabeth had opened his eyes to it, and he knew that Annabeth wanted him to put that fire out—was counting on him to. And she wasn't the only one.

Still, someone needed to be there, on the ground, to know what was unfolding with Annabeth. He reached for the encrypted phone and began to dial.

* * *

The Applied Sciences Division of Wayne Enterprises may have been located in the basement, but it certainly didn't affect phone reception. That was one of the many improvements made to the building when Bruce Wayne officially came on board. "I like to be available any time," he had explained to the few people who had quirked an eyebrow. "One time, I _totally _missed this call from...what's her name? Angelica...Thorton? Jolly? Because I was squirreled away down in that damned stuffy basement."

No one had questioned him about it after that.

And so, when Alfred's cell phone began to chirp that night, as he and Lucius were keeping vigil in the bowels of Wayne Tower, it wasn't surprising. What _was _surprising was that Bruce was calling in the middle of his...job. Usually it was only when something had gone dreadfully wrong. So it was with more than a little anxiety that Alfred answered the phone. In the background, Lucius eavesdropped shamelessly.

"Yes, sir?"

"Alfred."

If the fact that he was calling on a mission did not tip Alfred off to Trouble, his tone of voice did. "Yes, sir."

"Are you watching the news?"

"Yes, sir. Nothing remarkable." Even as he said this, he turned around and faced the LCD monitor that piped in the latest from GNN. The talking heads were reporting on the dismal results for the annual municipal Christmas toy drive. "In fact, it's _quite _dead."

There was a heavy silence. Then the Batman spoke again. "Either the networks haven't heard yet, or they just don't care. Alfred, I need you to get to the hospital."

"The hospital?" Alfred asked sharply. He was aware of Lucius growing more alert behind him. "Which one?"

"The one closest to Safe Haven, Gotham General. Annabeth's been shot, and Donna Drake is dead."

"_Dead?"_

"The Arrows infiltrated, trying to find Stacy. Annabeth got shot, and the building wasn't yet secured, and Donna got shot by a straggler...I'm on my way to the Narrows, but I need you to get to the hospital. Make sure that Annabeth is getting the best care."

"How bad was the wound?"

"Bad. I'm beginning to wonder if she'll make it—she lost a lot of blood, and there wasn't medical attention right away. I think Percival was the one who shot her. In the stomach."

_Sometimes I really begin to wonder if he is more than human, _Alfred mused. He understood, instinctively, the gravity of the situation, and knew, too, how difficult conveying this message was for Bruce Wayne, and even the Batman, but his voice didn't alter at all, didn't betray an ounce of emotion.

"I can't be there, Alfred. I need you to be there for me."

Alfred was already gathering up his coat. "I'm on my way, Master Wayne." But then he paused. "I didn't have a chance to tell you, sir, before everything went down, but Lucius Fox and I believe we have figured out the connection back to Miss de Burgh."

"What's that?"

"Donna Drake was her mother. She left Gotham many years ago, just like Miss de Burgh had told you. She changed her name multiple times...Eventually she came back to Gotham. Miss de Burgh must never have recognized her or realized who she was."

Silence. And then, in a more human voice, the Batman said, "I think it's fairly safe to say she knows now."

* * *

Boredom was beginning to be the default state of mind for Trinity. Boredom, and annoyance. She was annoyed _because _she was bored. And, for the most part, stuck in the disgusting little stash house that Donzetti and le Blanc had set up.

At one point during that interminable day, she found herself actually wishing that she were upstairs, with the girls that Donzetti had brought over. At least then she would have some sort of mental stimulation—if only the challenge of how to show them kindness and give them aid without actually appearing to do so. But no, when Donzetti and le Blanc had heard her proposal to "kill them with kindness"—in short, gain their trust only to break it later, they were delighted, but insisted on a modification: instead of being overly attentive to them, Trinity was to ignore them, by and large, and only pay attention to them every now and then, throwing offhand kindness first this way, then the other. The burly Archers could handle the violence, the cruelty, the terror.

"Keep them guessing," had been le Blanc's orders. "Make them wonder what's going to happen next."

"Make 'em jealous of each other—keep them from making friends," had been Donzetti's only advice before he had spirited Zhao away to his apartment—the poor girl.

Not long after that, le Blanc, too had departed, probably to spend time at that nightclub of his. They had, essentially, left Trinity in charge of the stash house.

Wonderful.

But not _quite_ in charge—Trinity was fairly certain that several of the Archers had been instructed to keep an eye on her, make sure she wasn't disobeying the directives that she had been given. So she carefully rationed her visits to the upstairs quarters, and spent most of her time in the lounge, always in the company of a couple of Archers. Every now and then, they would switch out with some of the other Archers who watched the girls.

It was frustrating and tension-inducing. Trinity spent most of her time idly flipping through television channels and occasionally cooking up improbable scenarios to extricate herself from this mess.

_Shit, and this is only Day One. I*f this goes on much longer, I think _I _might try to become a Batman._

Later in the afternoon, she excused herself and headed into the bathroom. Praying that le Blanc had not been suspicious enough to install surveillance cameras, Trinity sent a terse text message to Annabeth, letting her know more about the layout and the "staffing" of the building. She didn't get a response, which wasn't surprising; no doubt Annabeth de Burgh had passed the information on up the food chain and commenced doing whatever it was she did. Still, _some _sort of response would have been welcome; anything to break up the monotony of the day.

By the time 9 PM rolled around, Trinity's tolerance had begun to wear thin. "I'm going upstairs to check on the girls," she announced to her current babysitter, a burly man who looked as though he may have played NFL football in another life. Surprisingly, he rose and followed her out of the lounge. "I'll go up with you," he said, and suddenly grinned. "You bringing them food? It'll be fun to watch them fight over it."

His name was innocent-sounding enough—Danny. Trinity knew very little about him, as none of the Archers tended to share personal details about their lives, and they certainly didn't ask about hers. But Trinity had worked with Danny long enough to know that he was one of the worst. One of the truly sick. He was especially attentive to Lupe, one of the Latino girls that the Arrows had originally picked up. As far as Trinity could tell, Lupe was the youngest in the group. She had just turned thirteen a month or two back.

And Danny liked her. He liked that about her.

He had a pretty fucked-up way of showing how he liked her, though. Now all of the Archers knew not to touch Danny's pet, and Lupe herself was close to catatonic, and not in particularly healthy physical condition, either. Trinity had done what she could, but she knew how very careful she had to be, so as not to arouse suspicion.

Resisting the urge to gouge out his eyes, Trinity merely shook her head. "No food—we gave them some earlier this afternoon. They're not hungry enough yet." The tone of calloused dismissal in her voice was forced, but either he ignored it or it simply didn't penetrate his steroid-addled brain matter, for he simply followed her out of the lounge and up the dilapidated stairwell.

They didn't get too far. One of the Archers in charge of watching over the girls came charging down the stairs, cell phone in hand. "Man, we got problems."

_Shit. _Trinity didn't like the look of panic on his face, any more than she liked the tone of tension in his voice. Something told her that these problems were of a far more serious nature than the closest liquor store closing, which had been the last thing the Archers had been complaining about. "What's going on?"

"Let's get to the lounge," the Archer said to her as he hustled them back down the way they came. "So, you know Jack, who works the area close to Arkham? Well, he's over at a bar, scouting out some new recruits, when he sees something on the news. So he calls me."

They were back in the lounge now, and the Archer turned on the television that le Blanc had insisted be installed. He flipped it to the local news network. Trinity had one brief moment to experience surprise—_he _knows _what channel the news is on?_—before she focused on what was playing on the screen.

Breaking news...act of brutal and shocking violence...unexpected invasion of one of the city's halfway houses for battered women...hostage situation...multiple gunshots fired...at least one confirmed fatality...police managed to gain access...rumors of the Batman's involvement...identities of the victims being withheld at present...

They didn't disclose the name of the shelter, either, but Trinity knew, absolutely, that it was Safe Haven. What had happened? Who had been killed? Had Annabeth left anything at Safe Haven that could incriminate her? Everything suddenly seemed infinitely more perilous.

All of these were thoughts that raced through Trinity's brain as she, along with the two Archers, watched the news unfold. She was incredibly careful not to allow the fear growing within her to make its way into her features, and she tried very hard to ignore the voice inside her coldly rational brain: _Run!_

Her instincts were telling her to run as far from this place as possible. But her common sense and compassion were telling her something completely different. Common sense told her that if she ran, she completely showed her hand. Taking off would be the single most self-incriminating thing she could do. And compassion told her that the worst thing she could do would be to leave the girls in the stash house to the tender mercies of the Archers.

And maybe, just maybe, she could play this to their advantage. "_Their" _being not the Arrows, of course, but the Batman's. And hers. If, for any reason, everything had gone to hell, would it be at all possible that the Batman would be paying them a visit, sooner rather than later? She had no reason to think that, none other than her knowledge of the fanatic idealism which had compelled him to do...what he did. It was entirely possible, she decided.

She turned back to the Archers, both of whom were looking at her expectantly. "What's the big deal? Have either of you heard from Donzetti or le Blanc?"

"No," said Danny. "But that could be that place what was giving us all those problems a while back. You don't think the cops could be coming here?"

Trinity shrugged indifferently. "Why would they? They don't even know we're here. And do you really think Donzetti's going to appreciate you bugging him tonight? He and Zhao are getting better acquainted, and I really doubt he's going to appreciate a phone call interrupting his night, just because you boys panicked."

The two Archers glanced uneasily at each other.

Trinity smiled reassuringly. "Look, if it makes you feel better, we can get all the girls together, round them up and put them in the top floor. If the cops do, for some fucked up reason, decided to pay us a visit, they won't even bother up there. It's essentially an attic."

Her confidence had the desired affect. Confronted with such a forceful and persuasive personality—and an undeniably beautiful one at that, as well as one who had the Boss's backing, the Archers gave in quite readily... and so all three of them headed back to the staircase, and back to the girls.

* * *

At The Alleycat, Stacy had just finished her third O'Doul's when she noticed the news being piped through to the one television in the bar. One of the barflies had been casually surfing through the channels, searching for the Gotham Knights game, when he caught the breaking news. He paused for a moment and took in the information, but quickly enough continued flipping the channels again. Whatever madness Gotham had unleashed upon herself this time, he really didn't care.

Just then, he noticed the hand on his arm—a decidedly feminine hand. He looked at it, and then at the woman to which it was attached. One of the newer patrons, a reasonably attractive young woman—or at least she would have been, were it not for her decidedly unconventional appearance—was standing by him, smiling.

"Excuse me," she said sweetly, "I know you were probably searching for the game, but I was hoping you could change it back to the news really quickly? I hate to bother, but..." she cast her eyes down for a moment when he didn't answer; apparently the carrot wasn't going to work here. Time to bring out the stick. "It's just that my dad is the Police Commissioner and all, and I like to keep tabs on what's going on."

The seemingly innocuous words seemed to have an affect where her sweet demeanor had not. He relinquished control of the remote and glowered at her grin of thanks. Nonetheless, Barbara gestured to the bartender. "Bryce, would you mind putting this good man on my tab?"

This did the trick. His scowl turned into a brief, curt nod of appreciation, but Barbara wasn't fooled. She knew she had made another ally.

The television was now turned back onto the news, Barbara focused on the newscaster. What she failed to hear, the closed captions filled in. After a moment, she sensed Stacy joining her side.

One or two other patrons were paying attention to the news, but the majority were involved in their own affairs—their cups, their flirtations, their billiards, their conversations. Just more shit going down in Gotham, and didn't have nearly the stink of crazy that the Joker had. Not really worth paying attention.

"Think we need to cut loose?" Stacy asked Barbara, low. Her eyes were big with worry, and Barbara was reminded of how much growing up the kid still had to do.

Barbara didn't even have to glance around. "Nah, we should be okay." In a city as big as Gotham, what were the chances that her local dive bar was inhabited by the Arrows? It was far too hipster middle class for them. All the same, she'd be happy when she got in touch with her father. She pulled out her phone again.

* * *

The patrol car had just rolled to a stop, a block away from the stash house that they had been directed to, and where Gordon had commanded the FBI to be. No one was there yet—not even the Batman, as far as either of them could see.

Gordon and Montoya looked at each other.

Gordon spoke first. "Guess this is where we find out whether or not the Feds actually listened to me."

Another tense moment passed, and then the moment was shattered by the shrill ring of Gordon's phone. Both of them jumped.

"Barbara Jr. again," Gordon sighed. He answered. "Hello, Eldest." That was his nickname for her. "I can't really talk right now...uh-huh..._WHAT?_"

In the time that Montoya had worked with Gordon, she had often seen him exasperated, frustrated, and annoyed, but rarely angry, and never ballistic.

And tonight, it seemed some boundaries were about to be pushed.

"Barbara, how in the hell..." Gordon ran his hand through his hair. "No. Wait. Don't answer that...where are you? ..._The Alleycat?_ I shouldn't be surprised, I guess. Alright, look—you trust these people?" He listened. "Jesus. Okay. Stay there. I'll send someone down until...everything gets wrapped up."

Again, Montoya found herself unwillingly amused by Gordon's way of phrasing things. _Wrapped up? _As if it were just some little gift, that, once wrapped and presented, would get put away nicely and neatly. Somehow, things didn't feel wrapped up, or anything close to it.

Beside her, Gordon closed his phone. "Dammit."

"Problems, Commissioner?"

"A rogue daughter," Gordon muttered. And then he caught sight of another vehicle, all lights off, silently creeping down the street. "Shit. Barbara's at a bar down near the Tricorner Yards, The Alleycat. She's got Stacy with her."

"I gathered."

Gordon thought for a moment. "I'm calling Bullock off the investigation, and putting a few others in charge of Safe Haven. I want Bullock to find Donzetti and le Blanc and arrest them."

"Sir?"

"If we can get those two off the streets and out of contact with their thugs, that'll be one less thing I need to worry about tonight. Cut out the heart of the leadership, as it is. And Montoya—I want you to get down to The Alleycat and guard them. Guard them both."

Gordon didn't bother to watch as Montoya's patrol car sped off, leaving him in the murkiest part of the Narrows. It wasn't a concern to him; he had been down here more times than he could count, and didn't have the time to be concerned anyway. There were other, more pressing concerns.

First: a call to Bullock. His burly, trusted detective answered his cell on the first ring. "Yo, Commish."

In the background, Gordon could hear voices, crying, the squawk of electronic equipment. "I take it you're still at Safe Haven?"

"For the moment. Was starting to close up ship...got as far as we could for now. Some folks from some of the other shelters came in and started helping with the, uh, residents here. Obviously since they won't be staying here for a while."

"Obviously." Gordon didn't want to remember the scenes of chaos that had greeted him.

"And also, since the leadership's pretty much out for the count."

"What about that one girl...Maya? She seemed to have her head together."

"Except for the part of it that got the shit knocked out of it. One of the EMTs thought she might need a few stitches, so she's away to Gotham General, too. Got some interesting info out of her before she left, though."

"I'm listening."

"So it turns out that the woman what was killed, Donna? Was married to that Percival dickweed a long time ago."

Gordon let out a breath. "That could explain a few things."

"Gets better, boss. Percival starts telling a nice little story about how Donna was a Gotham native...and apparently was de Burgh's birth mother. Took off when the kid was real young, came back years later, made a few nasty deals...de Burgh never realized."

"Jesus H. Christ."

"Got that right. Pretty effed-up story, huh? Now Mom's dead and de Burgh might be checking out, too. Whole damned place is in an uproar."

"Alright, Detective. Good stuff, there. And there's a little change in plans. We've, ah, located Stacy—Montoya's on her way to her now. Whatever investigations still need to be done, have some of the other cops do them. But make sure that they treat those women well, and make sure they're placed in other shelters before much more time passes."

"What about me?"

"Good question, Detective. I think by now we've got enough to bring in le Blanc and Donzetti. Get a judge to issue arrest warrants—shouldn't be too hard, all the shitty judges are out of town for Christmas anyway. Then start sniffing them out."

"What about you?" Bullock tried to keep the concern in his voice to an off-handed sort, but Gordon knew better. "You and Bats are gonna storm the citadel up there in the Narrows?"

"We are."

"You and what army?"

Good question. Gordon pondered this for a moment. "I'm bringing in more cops," he said slowly, the words coming out of his mouth at the same time as they were coming into his brain. "Rookies."

"_Rookies?"_

"The fresher, the better. I'm going to take the chance that the new kids haven't been corrupted yet. And if I can give 'em the chance to see action so early on, I might just make some more allies."

"Ballsy, Commish. Could be incredibly dumb, or incredibly smart."

"We'll see. Call into MCU, have 'em dispatch six to eight of the newest rookies. And after that—you know your task. Don't turn up without the bosses."

"You got it." One of Bullock's redeeming qualities was a certain sense of business. When there was shit to do, he'd get it done.

After his call to Bullock, Gordon simply stood quietly, waiting.

It felt like so much of his life was waiting, these days. Waiting for the next crisis, for the next criminal, for the Batman. And sometimes it felt as though the Batman was the most punctual of the lot—which was a rather disturbing prospect to contemplate.

"Are you alone?"

_Not only punctual, but consistently so. _Gordon turned to the shadows of the alley and focused on the dark form which emerged. "For the moment," he answered. "I'm hoping the Feds show up soon."

"Have you figured out how they'll all play nicely?"

"Still working on that," Gordon sighed. "Hoping they'll be more tractable. Hard to say...their section chief is a bit of a hard-liner, but the agents seem to be fairly humane. As evidenced by the fact that they haven't asked me about my history working with you. But that might also be because it's possible they're clueless washed-up losers banished to Gotham. Still not sure."

"What about INS?"

Gordon was beyond the point of being surprised about the fact that the Batman appeared to be concerned about the people who could be the best advocate, or the worst enemy, of the females they were about to rescue. "Again, hard to say. They're not thrilled with the concept of several dozen illegal immigrants being dumped on them, particularly now that everyone is up in arms about our borders. And it doesn't help that our single best warrior is currently out for the count."

Here the Batman actually showed a semi-human reaction. He shifted his weight, and his cape gave a gentle rustle. "How is she?"

"Haven't heard, but from what I saw when they took her away, not great. She lost a lot of blood." Gordon frowned. "Bullock was questioning Maya, the only administrator left relatively unscathed—it appears that the director, Drake, was playing both sides of the fence."

"Go on."

"Don't have much yet. But it sounds like Drake made a deal with Percival...something to do with our Annabeth...it sounds like Percival claimed that Drake was her mother."

"She was."

Gordon was beyond feeling surprise at what the Batman knew. "Well then, how about you share what _you_ know?"

"There's not much else to know, at this point." The Batman didn't feel inclined to inform Gordon that he _barely _knew more. Had he not gotten into contact with Alfred, he'd know less than Gordon. "Drake was de Burgh's birth mother, left her and Gotham a long time ago. de Burgh didn't know that it was her."

"Could be that Percival was blackmailing Drake."

"Possibly. We're not going to know for a while, so it's a moot point. Percival's in custody?"

"Oh yeah. Charges pending until we see how Annabeth fares. Several witnesses state that he shot her."

"That's probably not the worst of what he's done." This was a new voice joining the conversation.

Both men turned, but neither were startled to see the two figures walking down the sidewalk.

"The Feds," Gordon sighed. "Scully and Mulder?"

The two figures finally became distinguishable, and one of them was a woman. "Don't you wish?"

"Although she _is _the better shot," the man said. "Commissioner, you're really slumming it, aren't you?"

Gordon shrugged. "_I've_ been here plenty of times. You seem to be a little lost."

The woman yawned, noisily. "I understand there's some hell we need to raise?"

"She _is _human," the Batman remarked. "Sure she's a Fed?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm Abilene—Special Agent Zahn, to you. I guess you're the Batman?"

"In the flesh," her male companion added. "I'm Sean...Special Agent Darth. The Batman...as I live and breathe. I hear you're quite the legend."

The Batman turned to Gordon. "I'm a legend?"

"Settle down there, Ego." Abilene glanced around. "We're about a block off, yeah?"

"The stash house is about a block that way," Gordon answered. "You two got a plan?"

"Not yet—but it looks like he does." Sean jerked his head towards the Batman. "Man, he moves quick."

The three of them watched as the Batman began scaling the sides of buildings. Beside Sean, Abilene let out a low whistle. "Damn, he needs to tell us what he equipment he's got."

Gordon restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "What about your section chief?"

Abilene rolled her eyes. "Shit, she's in DC more than she is here. Fucking her boss, I think. Corruption in Gotham isn't limited to the city limits. And really—Gotham's crazy as a June bug in a hen house. You think anyone else but us would be here?"

"Shut up, Abilene." This came from Sean, who was still trying to keep an eye on the Batman—pointlessly, as he had melted into the night. "No one gives a damn."

"On the contrary, I think." Abilene smiled at Gordon. "We're here in Gotham as punishment. You think anyone willingly puts in to work the field office of America's red-headed stepchild? I was originally in Miami—got a little too rough once in interrogation. As for Sean-"

"Shut the fuck up, Zahn." Sean was checking his gun. "The man doesn't give a damn."

"I think he does. Let's just say that our section chief isn't the only person in the history of the FBI who screwed someone. Only Darth here made the wrong choice—he screwed his boss's wife...along with several others... back in San Francisco."

"Abilene, I am going to kick your ass." Sean did not appear to be making good on that threat, however. He moved down the sidewalk. "Where the hell did he go?"

Gordon shrugged. "He'll be back." He stared at the two FBI rejects. "So I've got a nymphomaniac and a violence-prone renegade on my hands?"

"Compared to the antisocial vigilante playing hopscotch on Gotham's rooftops, you think _we're _the problem?" Abilene didn't even bother to look offended. "Look, just be glad we're not corrupt. We genuinely want to help."

Gordon briefly contemplated bashing his head against the nearest brick wall. "How do I know that?"

"Guess you'll find out." Abilene glanced at him. "Seriously, why are you stressing? You've got _cooperative _Federal agents, and so far, we're not turning your ass in."

"Forgive me if I remain unassured."

"Tell you what." Now Sean was speaking up again. "What if I convince your INS agent to work with you? Give those girls amnesty?"

Gordon snorted. "You guys just got through telling me you're the FBI's fuck-ups. You're not trying to arrest the Batman—or me—on sight, which seems to have been the official stand on the Batman and all known accomplices since the goddamned get-go. You don't think I smell something really rotten here?"

"Whatever. I'm bored. Sean, who's the INS Director here in Gotham?"

"Diana Glasgow."

Abilene was already dialing into her phone. "Gordon, how much you wanna bet I can get Diana to go along with whatever I say?"

Sean didn't give Gordon a chance to answer. He turned away from his partner and smiled at the weathered Commissioner. "Agent Zahn may have poor judgment when it comes to how much force to use, but she's got a damned good ear for gossip and information."

"Gossip and information?" _How the hell had he gotten stuck with these people?_

"Let's just say that the Feds aren't the only promiscuous government workers in Gotham, and my colleague's talent for subtle pressure and gentle blackmail will be substantially beneficial to you tonight."

Gordon was past the point of caring. "Fine. Whatever works—but make sure that the INS folks stick with whatever they agree to, because I don't want this biting us in the ass. All I _do _want is to shut down the Arrows and whatever twisted thing they've got running here."

"Commissioner," Agent Darth said grimly, "I can see already that we have our differences...but this isn't one of them. Now let's get your Bat-boy friend back here so we can get this done."


	46. Chapter 46

After an excruciatingly long drive from one end of the city to the other—a drive in which Montoya had plenty of time to ruminate over her mistakes and worry about her colleagues—she finally made it to The Alleycat. She didn't go in right away, however; for a moment, she leaned her forehead against the steering wheel and tried to collect herself. She didn't want to go in there dragging with her the stink and shame of failure—it was her job to keep Stacy safe, now, and being distracted by her own previous fuck-ups was a sure way to screw up again.

And she sure as hell didn't want to fuck up in front of the boss's daughter again, either.

She thought of her colleagues, even now probably charging into harm's way, and it scalded her heart that she wasn't with them. Not just because she _wanted _to be there, but because she _needed _to be there. She belonged with Gordon, backing him up; she belonged by Bullock's side, watching his back. And instead, she was exiled, away from the danger that she herself had unintentionally brought down on them.

Just then, a group of people—noisy, raucous college kids, by the look of them—passed by her patrol car, laughing and ribbing each other, and the sudden noise brought her out of her miserable reverie. Sighing in resignation, she unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door, and exited into the cold night air. As she checked her gun and concealed it in her shoulder holster, she happened to glance up and take in the night sky. Clouds were crowding in fast, blotting out the city lights and the little bit of starlight strong enough to be seen within the city.

_Terrific. _Another storm. Already the meteorologists were talking about the unusual number of winter storms which had already assaulted the region; speculation was that it was going to be a difficult winter, harsher than most. Judging by the current ominous look of the sky, Montoya was prepared to believe them.

With that not-particularly-encouraging knowledgge to fortify her, Montoya headed into The Alleycat.

It was a typical neighborhood watering hole, a dive of the highest—or more accurately, lowest—order. But it was warm and fairly non-threatening, and amusingly, judging by the number of flannel shirts and skinny jeans that assaulted her eyes, it had a little bit of a hipster flair. But the music wasn't too loud, the patrons appeared harmless, and best of all, Montoya spotted Barbara Gordon and Stacy right away. They were huddled at the bar, where Barbara gazing up at the television mounted to the wall, and Stacy was watching a game of pool being played a few feet away. Although, judging by the covertly come-hither looks she was sending in that general direction, her interest had less to do with the billiards and more to do with the scruffy young men playing them.

"What's a girl like you doing, slumming here?" Montoya asked as she approached the two females. Stacy looked up, alarmed, but Barbara merely smiled. "Glad to see you could make it."

Montoya sat down beside Barbara. "Everything okay here?"

"So far." Barbara glanced around. "I come here 'way more than I should, and the benefit of that is that I know most of the regulars. And so far, no one out of the ordinary."

"Good." Montoya caught the eye of the bartender. "Mineral water, please."

The bartender glanced at Barbara. "New girlfriend, Babs?"

"Bryce, I told you if you called me that again, I'd put a boot up your ass." For the first time since Montoya had known Barbara, the younger woman looked genuinely annoyed. "I fucking hate that name. It makes me sound like some sort of...I don't know, sixties-era wannabe valley girl who can't be taken seriously in her own right. It's fucking degrading." She paused, then continued. "And no, she's not my girlfriend."

"Not after unleashing that stream of petulance anyway," Bryce agreed as he passed Montoya the mineral water. He seemed impervious to Barbara's rants. Montoya instantly divined that the bartender and the Commissioner's daughter had slept together at some point.

"He the jealous type?" she asked Barbara mischievously.

Barbara showed neither surprise at Montoya's intuition nor embarrassment at her guess. "Not at all, thank god. And fortunately, he's as commitmentphobic as I am. Now," her expression became serious. "How's my father?"

"He's fine," Montoya reassured her. "Spread a little thin at the moment, but coping. How's the kid?"

"Fine, so long as she doesn't hear you call her 'kid'. I'm sorry I took off with her...I just figured that it was better to get her out of there rather than stick around."

Montoya's smile was grim, yet genuine. "I won't arrest you for interfering. Besides, if it weren't for you, god only knows what could have happened..."

When she wanted, Barbara could be every bit as intuitive as Montoya. "Dude, you can't be beating yourself up over it. It was a pretty good ruse, how they got in. And there should have been more surveillance, which _wasn't your fault at all." _She shook her head sympathetically. "Although, it won't do much good, me reassuring you. When I made my first big mistake on the force, it haunted me so much my supervisor sent me into counseling."

"Yeah? What happened?"

Barbara didn't need to dig far to uncover the memory. "Back in Chicago, me and my partner were responding to a domestic disturbance call. When we got to the house, everything seemed fine. The wife answered the front door, seemed normal, apologized for the misunderstanding. Said that she had been watching a movie with the volume turned up really loud, and the neighbors must have heard the screaming from the television and mistook it for people. I swear to god, Montoya, everything seemed normal, both me and my partner thought so. She wasn't upset, not crying, not tearful, no injuries, the house seemed immaculate. So we left."

"What happened?"

"A week later, another patrol was called out. This time—the woman was hysterical. And her kid was dead. It had been her boyfriend; he was a raging drug addict. The first time we had been called out, he had been hiding in the hallway, out of our line of vision, with a gun to the kid's head. We hadn't been suspicious, so we hadn't tried to investigate. And then, within seven days, the asshole had killed the kid in a hallucinogenic fit."

Montoya exhaled a pent-up breath. She had known, of course, that the Commissioner's daughter had been a cop for a few years, but had never really thought about it. To her, people fell into two groups—cops and civilians. Cops, she related to. Civilians, she protected, but they were apart from her, different. Other. Unable to understand the burdens she bore and the life she lived. But she had little experience with cops-turned-civilians—most of the cops she knew were lifers. It was strange to hear these experiences from a civilian, especially one with an appearance as off-beat as Barbara's.

Briefly, Montoya wondered how Barbara had fit in, on the force.

Barbara was continuing on, oblivious to Montoya's thoughts. "Anyway. That was the first really big mistake. And it wasn't the last, either. It was the only one that got someone killed, thankfully. But jesus, it was tough. After a while, I got sick of it."

By this point, on her other side, Stacy was listening in as well. "So, like, you were a cop once?"

"I was." Barbara gave her trademark crooked smile. "How else do you think I could put up with you? I've protected a lot worse."

Stacy ignored the jibe. "Why'd you quit?"

"Pretty much for the reason I told Montoya," Barbara sighed. "It can get to be too much, after a while. And then..." she paused, then grinned. "I developed a hidden love and penchant for computer hacking, and I didn't feel comfortable staying on the force and also doing potentially illegal things."

Both Montoya and Stacy smiled at this statement, and Stacy went back to watching the billiards game. Montoya watched her, and listened as Barbara spoke quietly about her. "She's not so annoying, once you find some common ground." Barbara nodded at the empty bottle by Stacy's elbow. "I've been plying her with non-alcoholic beer all night, and she's still too naïve to know the difference, surprisingly enough. So she's fine. A little worried, but fine."

Montoya glanced up at the television. "What's the news been saying?"

"Not much. What do you know?"

"Not much, either. Director of Safe Haven was killed, and Annabeth de Burgh was shot. Still don't know how she is, but it was pretty serious. Now your dad's out in the Narrows, trying to raise hell with you-know-who."

The transformation that Barbara went through was almost amusing. Her relaxed posture and slight affectation of urbane ennui disappeared as she sat straight up. "The Batman?"

"_Ssshhh!" _Montoya glanced around. "Jesus. Yes, the Batman. What's the big deal? You carrying his love-child or something?"

"No, no. I'm just fascinated with him. I totally dig what he's doing."

"You would." Montoya couldn't help but to roll her eyes. "He's a _vigilante_, Barbara."

"And my father happens to be pretty cozy with him," Barbara retorted. "Careful who you're judging."

"I know. And as much as I don't approve of what he's doing..." Montoya bit her lip, thinking about it. "I mean, let's look at this from a completely intellectual standpoint. We live in a democracy, and we have a system in place. As a people, we have agreed to work within this system. We've adopted it as the way that works. And so to have someone go outside the system is to undermine the system. It can undermine democracy."

"You're saying that the Batman is subversive?"

"I'm saying that he's a help as well as a hindrance. Like your father, I can't work with black and white. I work in the grey. Hell, I _exist _in the grey. And I know that he's been an incredible help—I would even say he's saved this city. But that's short-term, and I'm worried about what's going to happen in the long-term."

"Subversive people have been vehicles for social change for centuries," Barbara pointed out. "In my mind, evolution and revolution hinge on subversiveness. At least from a historical perspective."

"But we're not history right now. Not yet, at least. We're living this, and we're going to have to live with the effects of it. And so will everyone else. And that's the thing—we're essentially working outside the system. We're a small group of people making choices that effect a large group of people, that others don't know about and might not want us to make, and haven't authorized us to make them. And how will we be held accountable when things go wrong? Where's the accountability, where's the transparency? Where's the democracy in this?"

Faced with such a passionate argument, Barbara had no immediate response. In fact, she was usually quiet as she took in Montoya's words. She sat quietly, processing it, and in fact remained quiet for so long that Montoya nudged her. "Barbara?"

"Sorry." Barbara shook her head slightly. "I got lost there for a moment."

"What were you thinking?"

"Honestly? You'll hate me for it. I think you just gave me an idea for my doctoral thesis."

"Jesus." Montoya couldn't decide whether she wanted to laugh or pursue the conversation further, but she didn't need to make the decision. Just then, a news update flashed past on the television, capturing the attention of both women. Nothing much new; in fact, other than briefly announcing once more the hostage situation that had transpired earlier, the news anchors seemed to have lost interest in it, and quickly moved on to the approaching winter storm.

"Anyway," Montoya sighed. "It's all rather a moot point right now. Right now, we need the Batman. _Again."_

"I hope my father's alright," was Barbara's only response.

"I hope he's got people he can trust," Montoya answered.

"He's got the Batman," Barbara volleyed. "I think it can't get any better than that."

* * *

In what now seemed like another lifetime, the Batman had jumped out of a skyscraper to save a woman's life. Not just any woman, mind, but _Rachel_, who had been until recently the only woman he had ever truly loved. Without a plan, without a thought, he had hurled himself out of a window and plunged into a yawning darkness, stretched out his gloved hands—and actually managed to hold death at bay.

_Hold death at bay_—but not forestall it altogether. Death had come for Rachel, regardless.

He hadn't realized that at the time, of course. At the time, he had been propelled by instinct—_save Rachel, save yourself—_and fueled by adrenaline. And after, when Alfred had tended his wounds (it had not been, obviously, a comfortable experience, falling several hundred feet and using his body to cushion Rachel), he had been electrified by his own success, and perhaps just a little bit arrogant. He had faced death down and emerged the victor. And the words he uttered to Alfred then haunted him now.

"I didn't think," he had said. "There was no time to think. If I took the time to think, to plan, we'd both be dead."

And as the Batman faced the current situation, he found himself wondering—to think, or not? To stratagize, or not? According to his bat-cams, there were more than 40 women packed away in the attics of the stash house, a mere handful of men scattered through the rest of the rooms. There were also Gordon and several apprehensive MCU rookies, and two oddball Federal agents. The question was—were they going to be assets or liabilities?

_Assets, _whispered his all-too-human voice inside his head. _Pool your resources._

_Liabilities, _hissed the Batman. _They'll just raise the body count._

The internal debate was short-lived, and as it turned out, completely moot. Gordon was tired of waiting and felt the need to assert some measure of authority. He was, rumor had it, the Commissioner, after all.

"Top priority is the women," he said abruptly, addressing the gathered people, from the Batman down to the rookies. "Chances are that the men you encounter will _not _be key players—they're probably expendable, and they know it, and will not be willing to stick their heads out too far. While they need to be neutralized, _the women matter more. _Make sure they're safe, make sure they can't run. These ladies have most likely been brutalized, and them running loose through the Narrows _will not help them." _He paused, and stared at the rookies. "They're victims—you remember that, you respect that. If you don't, or if you treat them like criminals, or I will personally end your career."

Everyone remained silent, taking in Gordon's words. On that typically bleak, freezing night, the Batman had no way of knowing yet whether Annabeth was alive or dead. But regardless, her spirit burnt brightly; she had managed to instill some of her beliefs and values into the Batman and Gordon, the two most valuable allies that one could have in Gotham.

"Enough planning." The Batman growled this; even the bumbling Feds could tell that he was getting restless. As far as he was concerned, if there was ever a good time to act, now was it. "I'm going to create a diversion, draw the Archers out and together. "You two—" he pointed a gloved finger to the Feds, "back me up."

They looked surprised, as well they might. They had no way of knowing that he had gauged them to posed the smallest threat; he had studied the training and fighting styles of Federal Agents, and knew it inside and out—certainly well enough to take them out if they turned. As for Gordon—well, he'd have to deal with his own.

Apparently, Gordon felt the same. He turned to his rookies. "You officers are with me. We go in through the fire escapes; once they create the diversion, we _protect and evacuate, _understand?"

In unison, the rookies nodded. This was likely the most action any of them had seen since they had graduated from the academy.

"Good. I told you—I can and will end your career if you fail to follow my command, or if you go weird on me in any way. But if this goes down right—if we keep these women safe—then I will personally see to it that your career follows a one-way trajectory: up."

One of the rookies, a skinny woman had acquired the ironic nickname of "Curves" in the Academy, piped up. "What's the diversion?"

Beyond the dark, empty spot where the Batman had been standing only a moment before, they heard his voice. "You'll figure it out."

The Feds had enough presence of mind to scramble off into the direction where they had heard his voice. Gordon, fighting back an evil smirk, herded the rookies down the block, into the direction of the alley behind the stash house. _Won't do to give them the chance to think._

Without knowing it, Gordon had come to the same conclusion his caped comrade had been struggling with earlier: The time for thinking and planning had passed. Thinking meant hesitating, and hesitating could get themselves killed.

* * *

Within the freezing darkness of the uninsulated attic, Trinity was struggling to maintain a sense of order. By nature she was a solitary kind of person, not a leader, and so it was not something that came naturally to her, keeping control of a group of people. This was not an easy task—literally and metaphorically, she was as much in the dark as the females she was supposedly in the process of breaking.

But judging by the current state of affairs within the attic, she had sucked, royally, at her "job." General chaos reigned as some young women cried, others prayed, and yet others comforted each other. A surprising number of them were calling down curses upon Trinity and her entire bloodline. At least, that's what it sounded like—her Russian skills were shaky at best, her Czech was limited to idiomatic terms, as well as crudities and slang; and her Slovak was limited to a mental note of "might be helpful to learn someday." Still, she was getting the gist of what they were saying to her, and as much as they hated her at present, regarded her as a female Antichrist, she found herself oddly pleased. _They still have spirit—that's good. _Of course, at present they seemed to have forgotten the many small kindnesses she had done, and only focused on the fact that Trinity, too, was keeping them here.

At least one of the girls wasn't cursing Trinity. Lupe clung like a bur to her side, seeing in the older woman the only remaining stability left in her horrific existence. She didn't say much, terror having long ago robbed her of most of her powers of speech, but it didn't take a genius to see why Lupe stuck so close to Trinity: so long as Trinity was around, Danny the thug couldn't hurt her. And he had already hurt her plenty—Trinity was no nurse, but she suspected cracked ribs, at the least. In addition to this were several infected burns from the butts of cigarettes with which Danny had burned her, and god only knew what harm had been done to her that wasn't showing.

Whenever an Archer was around, she would cringe and try to make herself as invisible as possible. When they weren't around, she would cry and tremble, or else fall completely, almost catatonically quiet. And all of the other girls, as much as they were abused and controlled and fearful and looking out for their own selves, seemed to band together to care for Lupe. It was both heart-warming and heart-wrenching to watch.

"Fuck it," Trinity muttered, shrugging out of her coat. She had actually gone back to the lounge to grab it, after deciding to "retreat" to the attics, and now she was grateful she had done so. Carefully, she draped it over Lupe's broken body. The girl didn't seem to notice. "It's going to be okay."

_Who am I trying to reassure? _Trinity asked herself bitterly. _Lupe or me? In either case, I don't think it's working._

Nearby, one of the other young women stood, watching Trinity, not saying a word. Her name was Oksana, and she was a classic Russian beauty. She also possessed exceptional English language skills and a deep sense of concern for the other girls who were imprisoned with her. In the past, she had remained silent, choosing instead to administer comfort through hugs and her formidable presence, but now, she spoke.

"I think more is going on than here you have been telling us, yes?"

"I haven't told you anything,'' Trinity began to respond, but was cut off as she heard a muffled explosion. The floorboards trembled slightly, but that was all. Trinity guessed that whatever had happened had done so on the ground floor, near the main entrance—fairly far off in the building. Nevertheless, hope sliced into her chest, and she found herself beginning to pray that her instincts had been correct.

It was a double-edged sword. While Trinity knew it for hope, the others only saw it as an explosion, another danger in a tiny, dark world already fraught with too many perils. Even the calmest were beginning to appear rattled.

Not Oksana, though. She nodded. "I think the big bang is all I need told to me."

Through the thin floorboards, Trinity could hear the faint shouts of the Archers, presumably as they were heading towards the explosion. _Idiots. _By now, she was fairly convinced that the Batman had managed to launch an attack, and...

...and what? Was she supposed to just sit here, like a helpless princess locked away in a tower, waiting to be rescued? Fuck that. It wasn't her style. Of course, running into the middle of a showdown between Gotham's Dark Knight and the Archers wasn't her style, either. Looking around, straining into the dark to see the terrified faces of the forty women that she was trying to protect, and then hearing another muffled explosion, Trinity made the decision to stay put. Out there, she would only get in the way; in here, at least she could try to help.

"Everyone over here," she called in a low voice. In Russian, she added, "все сюда !"

To her surprise, most of them listened to her. They gathered in close, and in the dim light, Trinity could see them looking expectantly at her. "Oksana, I want you to translate for me."

Oksana gave her a skeptical look, but nonetheless obeyed as Trinity began to speak.

"If something happens to me, I want you to stay together as much as possible. Those of you who are stronger, pair up with someone else who needs help. Stick close to Oksana. Some cops might be coming in soon—hell, something freakier, maybe. But they are going to help you, I promise." She felt Oksana's eyes upon her, suddenly curious, and she nodded towards her. "Keep translating. I know that you think cops bad, but not these people. They're going to help you. Demand to be placed under the custody of _no one else _but a man named Gordon." Again she looked at Oksana. "Understand?"

"Gordon," Oksana repeated, nodding firmly.

"Good." Trinity lowered her voice so that only Oksana could hear. "Don't let any of the girls loose. Gordon's going to take care of you all. _Trust him."_

"Why should I be trusting you?" Oksana asked, not unreasonably. "You have been the one who has watched us suffer and have not been helping us."

Another explosion rumbled, this one slightly closer.

"Some day, Oksana, if we get out of this mess alive, I'll take you out for the best bottle of Stolichnaya I can find and tell you exactly how I got into this shit to begin with." Trinity frowned as she tried to herd the rather large crowd closer to her. "But for now, let's just say that most days, I'm just a luckier, better-dressed version of you gals."

Oksana nodded. "For now I trust you. But what will be happening to you?"

"I don't plan to leave you all. But you never know when plans change."

When she was speaking with the investigators later, recounting the evening, Oksana found herself surprised that, before that particular moment in the conversation, she hadn't noticed the gun tucked into the waist of Trinity's designer jeans. But when Trinity moved to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, Oksana certainly did see it. She considered herself a tough bird, made even tougher by her travails, but seeing that firearm gave her quite a chill.

"One more thing, Oksana?"

"Yes? What is it you are wanting now?"

"Keep an eye on Lupe got me."

Just then, the door leading into the room burst open, and Danny stormed in, breathing hard, his eyes wild. "He's here!"

"Who?" Trinity kept her voice cool. She saw Oksana observing the situation, and saw the calculating look on her face.

"The Batman! He's come to grab you all!"

Trinity barely had time to be astounded by his utterly inept—and unexpected—attempt at propaganda before Oksana began shrieking, a high, demented noise which echoed eerily in the darkened room. "The Batman! боже всемогущий ! God help us!"

Up until that point, Trinity had not entertained the thought of pulling the gun. But with Danny present, and so clearly a loose cannon, and with Oksana providing such a useful and well-staged diversion—not only that, but several of the other girls, with probably more sincerity, began to take up the chorus..._time to act._

Trinity was one in a million. Whether she was flirting, or cooking, or learning a new language, or dancing, or pulling a gun, she did it all with incredible grace and efficiency. Before Danny had figured out what was going on, she had the gun out, the safety off, and the weapon aimed right at him.

He pulled his eyes away from Lupe, who had gone catatonic once more. "What's this, Trin?"

"What's it look like, dickweed?" Trinity's grip was steady and her eyes blazing. "Last time I checked, le Blanc put me in charge of these girls, and as far as I can see, everything is going to hell in a hand basket. Yet you've got the nerve to come running in here like a scared little pussy, waving that gun around? _Get where you're supposed to be!"_

"Like you even know how to use that."

"Danny, you really want to bet on that? I fucked the President of the NRA for fourteen months. Try me."

He never had a chance to answer her. Just then, in a heart-stopping rain of shattering glass, several dark forms smashed their way through the windows.

"Police! Freeze!"

"Drop the weapons!'

Neither Trinity nor Danny listened. Trinity, however, did inch her way clear of the girls—no need to get them hurt in the crossfire, not when they were so close to being rescued.

Both guns discharged at once. Trinity's aim was remarkably, poetically true: Danny fell, alive but bleeding from the groin. That she had missed any major arteries was a miracle. Danny's aim, while less effective, nonetheless hit an unintended target: the bullet ricocheted and struck one of the cops in the shoulder. The cop hit his knees but remained conscious.

"_Officer down!" _bellowed one of the cops into his two-way radio. "Wetzel's down!"

"Barely," grunted the injured officer, presumably Wetzel. Upon closer inspection, Trinity couldn't tell if Wetzel were a man or a woman. Pain had an interesting way of rendering its victims sexless.

Trinity dropped her gun and put up her hands. One of the cops approached her; judging by his weathered appearance, his grave face, and his aura of leadership, Trinity suspected she was looking at none other than Commissioner Gordon.

"Trinity Whitney?" he asked.

"I am."

"Commissioner Jim Gordon." He glanced back at the groaning form of Danny and grimaced. Most of the cops were beginning to attend to the girls, but one was attempting first aid on Danny. "Looks painful. Hell of a situation, here. Looks like self-defense to me."

Trinity thought for a moment. "Uh-uh. No good. You know what you need to do..." she lowered her voice. "I'm probably safer in custody."

Gordon sighed. "Trinity Whitney, I'm placing you under arrest..."

Oksana had watched this entire exchange, and remembered Trinity's words to her only minutes before. _"If something happens to me..." _She headed over to where Lupe was huddled, and a cop was attempting to talk to her. "Is Jim Gordon, yes?" She gestured to where Gordon was handcuffing Trinity. The cop glanced over at Gordon, and then at the fierce Russian young woman. "Yes."

"So you are the men of Gordon?"

Gordon had fallen silent to hear the response.

"We are."

Gordon wasn't the only one to hear this response. From the shadows, the Batman heard this, too.

With almost insulting ease, he had taken out the Archers guarding the building. His plastic explosives had succeeded in surprising and disorienting the men, and what strength they had in numbers was quickly outweighed by the weakness of their collective slow-wittedness. Thankfully, the Federal agents had proven clean, and were even now busy restraining the Archers and gleefully reading them their rights. He had quickly assessed the rest of the building and found it to be empty, and so headed to the top floor.

There, things were falling into place. The girls were safe, Gordon was arresting Trinity—god only knew why, but he trusted Gordon's instincts—and the officers appeared to be declaring their allegiance to Gordon.

Unexpected though this was, it was gratifying. He watched, silently, as the scene unfolded, as the girls comforted themselves and each other and in some cases, appeared to not believe that the ordeal had ended. He watched as Gordon issued orders, talked into his radio, and began to move through the room, making sure everyone was relatively safe.

It was too soon to relax, of course, and certainly too soon to believe that the ordeal was anywhere near over. Montoya still had to bring Stacy in for protection; Bullock still had to report back on his arrests of le Blanc and Donzetti, Safe Haven was in metaphorical shambles...and then, too, there was Annabeth.

As his mind shifted over to this particular problem, the Batman felt an ominous shiver. As the Batman had been carrying out his duties, Bruce Wayne could not, therefore, be where he rightfully belonged—by Annabeth's side. When would the sacrifices stop?

He had carried out his duties here. It was time to attend to them elsewhere. And so, as he caught Trinity's eye and saw her nod once, in acknowledgment, he silently slipped away.

* * *

It was past two in the morning before Jim Gordon finally made it home.

He arrived just as the latest winter storm was beginning to break overhead, lashing sleet down onto the Naval Tricorner yards, along with a bitter wind which seemed to be scourging everything in its path. Wearily, he closed his front door against the nasty weather, and leaned against it, his eyes closed, his mind trying desperately to tuck away the memories of the difficult evening.

Down the narrow hall, he heard the shuffle of footsteps, and after a moment, his eldest daughter emerged, backlit by the cheerful, warm yellow light glowing from the kitchen. "Hey, Pops." She looked expectantly at him, almost like a child expecting a scolding.

"Hello, Eldest." Wearily, he began to shrug his way out of his coat and scarf, and then noted, in vague surprise, that Barbara was there, helping him shed his winter garb. "Better watch out, daughter. Some man might get accustomed to this kind of treatment."

"Doubtful."

They faced each other, head-on, then, world-weary father and spirited daughter. Barbara cocked her head expectantly. Instead of giving her the dressing-down she so clearly anticipated, Gordon squeezed past Barbara and headed toward the kitchen. Bemused, Barbara trailed in his wake.

"How are Jimmy and Hannah?"

"Fine." Barbara watched as he sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, and then began to busy herself at the stove. "Birdie didn't mind staying late. And I sent her home with a hefty little bit of money. It was a lucky thing that it was her night to baby-sit anyway."

"Yes. Lucky."

It was difficult to tell if Jim Gordon was paying any attention at all to his daughter; his gaze followed her as she moved from cupboard to refrigerator to stove and back again, but at no point did he really seem to comprehend her actions. For her part, Barbara acknowledged nothing out of the ordinary; as far as she was behaving, it was normal for both of them to come in at any old odd hour. And who knew? Perhaps it was.

But finally, her busy actions stopped—right as she placed a steaming beverage in front of her father, and sat down across from him, with a mug of her own.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Mulled wine." Barbara inhaled the spicy, comforting scent that wafted up from her mug. "I've been working on this recipe for a week now—I wanted to get it right for Christmas. Drink up, it should help you sleep." To underscore her point, she took a hefty swig.

"I need to be back at MCU in five hours," Gordon pointed out ruefully, but Barbara was undeterred.

"All the more reason to get a good night's sleep when you can. Drink up."

So Gordon drank up.

Barbara watched as slowly, her father drained the mug. "Tough night?"

Gordon grimaced. "You know as well as I do. What time did you get home?"

"About an hour ago. Montoya and Stacy got called back to MCU, and I figured I did as much as I could."

"Damned right you did," Gordon grumbled. He glanced up at his daughter, and for the first time that night, he allowed his exasperation to manifest. "How the hell did you end up getting involved?"

Barbara chewed her lip and contemplated her response, but finally decided that truth was the best way to go. Despite her photographic memory, she didn't care to try to keep track of too many lies. "Annabeth de Burgh had invited me to check out Safe Haven, maybe volunteer, and I was curious. So I decided to swing by. And then when I got there, I saw Montoya doing surveillance, and then... it just kind of went from there. It was all about the timing, I suppose. I saw Stacy heading down the sidewalk...hey." Barbara's eyes grew brighter. "Where is Stacy? How is she? Montoya said she was taking her back to the station once she heard from you."

Gordon rolled his eyes heavenward. "The most incompetent Feds you could possibly imagine whisked her into witness protection. Hopefully she's safer now..." His tone belied whatever confidence he may have been trying to project.

"Wherever that kid goes, I think she'll be okay." Barbara didn't appear to be too concerned, but instead picked up her father's mug and refilled it with more wine. "She's a tough one, that Stacy is."

The silence stretched out before them for another few minutes, as Gordon sipped his mulled wine and both of them listened to the storm raging outside.

Surreptitiously, Gordon studied his daughter. Her expression was in its normal, default state of amused awareness, with a little bit of kindness and harebrained courage twinkling in her eyes for good measure. Barbara was a force of nature, a unique woman who valued information and the freedom to gain it, but even more than that, she valued justice and honor...and she had chosen to take her honorable life and live it, once more, in Gotham. Without realizing it, Gordon sighed. What had he brought his daughter to?

Barbara took another swig of her wine. "I've been thinking..."

Gordon cocked his head. _This should be good._

"I think my generation wonders, when do we grow up? When do we become adults? Or rather, when do we realize that we left youth behind?" She lapsed into silence once again, considering, thinking.

"Well?" Gordon prompted her. "What did you decide?"

The smile that Barbara gave him was tender, sad, and resigned. "I think one becomes an adult when they are in a place where they can help their parents...when their parents need their help...when they and their parents are facing the same kind of problems."

It was insightful and true, perhaps, but it did not make Gordon feel any better. "For the sake of the entire free world, I hope you can come up with some better solutions than I did."

"Unlikely," was her stout, fearless response. "I've learned from the best."

For a while, they both sipped on their drinks and listened to the wind as it whipped through the branches of spindly, feeble tree which grew just outside the kitchen window. Every now and then a nasty gust would thrash its bare branches and scratch against the panes.

Finally, Gordon sighed. "What a mess." It was unclear whether he was referring to the weather or the events of the night, but Barbara decided to assume it was the latter.

"I heard that someone got shot at Safe Haven," Barbara responded. "Is everyone okay?"

"No. Not at all. Annabeth de Burgh is in the hospital...I called in a while ago, and she made it through surgery. The rest is up to her. But Donna Drake, her boss—she was shot and killed. Seems like the entire incident was engineered by Seth Percival"

Barbara nodded, and sent up a quick, silent prayer for Annabeth. She recognized a fellow fighter when she saw one, and she sincerely hoped that de Burgh would live to fight on another day. But... "Seth Percival? Have I heard that name?"

"Probably. He's one of those men around town—a banker businessman-type...who apparently had connections to the mob. And as it turns out, at one time he was married to Drake." Gordon paused for a moment to wonder why he was spilling all of this to his daughter, but what the hell? It would probably be all over the news by the next morning. "And it's looking more and more likely that Drake was, unknown to Annabeth, her biological mother."

Barbara whistled low. "That sounds...absolutely bizarre. Kind of like backwoods Kentucky meets _General Hospital. _Or something on Lifetime for Women."

"It's bizarre alright. But when compared with the other crazy shit that goes down in this city, it seems almost refreshingly mundane."

He had a point there, but Barbara was already moving on. There were more pressing matters to investigate... "Was the Batman there?"

Her too-casual tone didn't fool Gordon. "Yes...he showed up."

"Showed up? Or saved the day?" Barbara saw right away that she had, finally, crossed an invisible boundary and hastened to make make amends. "I'm sorry, Dad...that was low. I know better than that."

Gordon acknowledged her apology, but honesty compelled him to admit to her perceptiveness. "You're right, though...at least a little bit. He saves the day too much...I rely too heavily upon him."

"I wouldn't beat myself up too much if I were you..." Barbara's gaze grew distant, thoughtful. "I'd just be grateful he's here. And if I were him, I'd be grateful to have such an honest cop to work with. You two make a pretty good team." There was no disguising the envy in her voice, and Gordon's gaze grew shrewd.

"Don't go getting any ideas, Barbara. It was bad enough you got involved tonight...you could have been arrested for interfering with an investigation. Thank god you've stayed out of things before now." His eyes narrowed as Barbara began to look distinctly uncomfortable...almost guilty. "Barbara? You _haven't _gotten involved, have you?"

Barbara hated lying to her father; in fact, tried to avoid it at all costs. "I'm not..._involved_, as you put it, now. I maybe meddled a little a while back."

"Meddled?" Gordon echoed. He didn't like where this was going.

"Meddled is definitely the word for it." Barbara had the decency to look abashed. "The Batman definitely didn't want me there. That night that he came to the house...I followed him out to the Narrows right after. It was the night you arrested that Boy-o goon, remember?"

Dazedly, Gordon nodded.

"Let's just say I gave the Batman a little hand." Modesty—and common sense—restrained her from disclosing that she may very well have saved the Batman's life. "He was good and pissed, I promise you."

Abruptly Gordon got up from the table and began pacing through the kitchen. "I can't believe this. Would it sound archaic if I told him to stay away from my daughter?"

"Dad, it wasn't a big deal. He didn't want me there, didn't ask for me to be there." She added something after this in an inaudible tone, and while Gordon couldn't be sure, he suspected it was something along the lines of "goddamned patriarchy."

Gordon leaned against the counter and gazed down at his daughter. "Let me ask you something, Barbara Junior."

She winced. When he brought out the _Junior, _she knew there could be trouble. It was like she regressed to the age of twelve, all over again.

"Would it make a difference, any difference at all, if I were to forbid you to get anywhere near that man?"

_Dammit, he wants more honesty. _"Dad, you know the answer to that. It wouldn't change a thing." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "I want in."

She had no way of knowing that someone else had said those same words to Gordon, with reference to that same topic. _I want in._Idealistic, intense Harvey Dent had demanded it of him, had circumvented him when he had stonewalled him. He had wanted in, he had gotten in, and he had gotten himself corrupted and killed.

Gordon knew his daughter well enough to know when to fight, and when to make a strategic withdrawal. He sighed in weary defeat. "The man's practically a frickin' home-wrecker, you know that?" It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. "Why do you want this, Barbara?"

"I believe in what you're doing—both of you. And you both need allies."

Barbara may think that she had outgrown her youth, but her father knew differently. To her tender, twenty-five-year-old eyes, it was all very simple, even this morally murky area. And in her eyes, there was still possibility and hope. It broke Gordon's heart, right there. And what broke it all over again was that he knew his daughter was right. But still...this was his _daughter._ "If you get involved with him, Barbara...if you try to aid him...and I catch you, I won't be able to protect you. I will have to arrest you. I _will _arrest you. Both of you."

Barbara smiled, and it was a smile in which sadness and pride both shone through. "I know, Dad. I wouldn't expect you to do anything else."

Father and daughter fell silent once again. Beyond their home, beyond the walls of their snug little place in the Naval Tricorner Yards, all was uncertain and frightening. And even _within _the walls was a fair degree of the same angst. Upstairs, young Jimmy and Hannah slept on, unaware that their mother had all but abandoned them, unaware that their father courted a rather considerable amount of mortal danger every night, and unaware that their eldest sibling was trying to throw herself head-first into the very same danger. The two innocents knew none of this. But Barbara and her father both did.

And that, Jim Gordon realized, was exactly why he had asked his eldest daughter to return home to Gotham. Her seemingly endless reserves of energy and spirit had certainly sustained him at various times over these last couple of months, particularly when his own energy was flagging and his own spirits totally wasted. He knew that he and his wife could only claim credit for a small amount of their daughter's capacity for selflessness; much of it, she had developed long before she had come to them, a heartbroken, orphaned waif, still reeling from the sudden death of both of her biological parents. That selflessness, that strength of spirit, had already taken root, even then. It was one of the many reasons why he loved her; why his pride in her was so great.

Given those parameters, given that personality, he had to take the good with the bad—and he had to accept the fact that, despite her callow idealism, his daughter was well and truly grown-up. She had to make her own decisions, her own mistakes, and he had to let her. And he had to learn not to shield her from the consequences.

Although, judging by the fierceness in her eyes, the slightly amused twist to her mouth, and the steadiness of her demeanor, he didn't think she would need anyone to shield her. She could handle her own life, and she wasn't afraid of it.

The pain was great, but the love was greater, and all the more bittersweet for it.

Oblivious to Gordon's thoughts, Barbara broke the spell as she gathered their mugs and carried them over to the sink. As she turned on the faucet, she glanced out the window. "It's a bitchin' night out there."

"I know," Gordon sighed, "It was pretty bad." His mind moved once more from the realm of domestic affairs to the world of crime and violence. "It's been a pretty bad night for a lot of us. I hope Annabeth de Burgh pulls through...she's a tough kid, and she didn't deserve any of this."

"Very few people do, Dad," Barbara pointed this out with genuine regret. "But I think she'll be just fine. I think Annabeth is the kind of person who would live forever...just to piss people off." She paused for a moment as she contemplated the strange circumstances that surrounded Annabeth. "I just hope she's got good people to help her through."


	47. Chapter 47

In the Emergency Room of Gotham General, it had been a surprisingly quiet evening. This, in and of itself, was not unusual—even a city as fucked up as Gotham had its slow nights—but that it was a slow night so close to Christmas was a little off. Usually there were a few auto accident victims (products of spectacularly poor judgment following an evening of over-indulgence at a holiday party), a few people on the losing end of an ongoing family feud, one or two heart attacks (the holidays _were _pretty damned stressful), a case or two of frostbitten homeless folks, and, of course, the obligatory failed suicide attempt. Just because the whole Christmas-being-the-peak-suicide-time had long since been debunked as an urban legend didn't mean that no one was miserable in December.

But tonight, none of that. Earlier, there had been a toddler with a high fever which had turned out to be an ear infection; an extremely overweight 30-year-old who was confident she was having a heart attack (she wasn't), as well as a few broken bones. But other than that, nothing.

At 9:30 PM, Janey did the rounds, checking on the patients and their various states of repair. She left her colleague Elia at the admissions desk, absently playing a game of solitaire.

The overweight woman was the only patient who required a prolonged bit of Janey's attention; she was depressed and in floods of tears. A few moments of sympathetic listening and a promise to refer her to a dietitian were as far as Janey could progress before her pager went off.

Code 99. In other words, Code Blue.

"'Bout damned time something happened around here," Janey muttered as she headed back to her station. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who felt this way; at least five other nurses and orderlies came out of the woodwork as well. They all converged in the admissions area which Janey had so recently left; now Elia was standing up, alert, prepared, and accompanied by the Head Nurse on the night shift, as well as the attending physician, Dr. Tulare. He was addressing them, collectively, now.

"Just got the call—EMTs are still about ten blocks out, but coming in fast. So far, one victim, female, early 30s—single gunshot wound to the abdomen. Massive blood loss, condition critical. First priority is a blood transfusion, but we'll need to get her into surgery immediately after. I've paged the night surgeon, he'll be down in a moment..."

It was then that Janey realized that the Head Nurse was beckoning to her. Still trying to listen to the doctor, Janey inched her way over to where she and Elia were standing.

"Janey, I'm taking you off of this one."

Confused, Janey glanced from the Head Nurse to Elia, who was looking uncharacteristically grim. "You're kidding, right? What did I do?"

"Nothing—you're fine. But I don't want you working this shift tonight. The victim that's coming in is one of the hospital's part-timers, and you're listed as her emergency contact. Janey, it's Annabeth."

"You're shitting me!" Janey saw a few of the orderlies glance over at her, and so lowered her voice before she continued. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Details are sketchy. We don't know much of anything yet. But I know this—you can't be objective. This is too close, too personal."

Elia was nodding in unhappy agreement with her supervisor.

"But you might want to stick around," the Head Nurse added. "Things aren't looking good." She turned back towards the physician, and after one stricken look, Elia did, too, leaving Janey to struggle with this sudden, horrible reality.

She was still trying to grasp the situation when she caught sight of a tall, older man coming through the doors of the ER. He looked strangely familiar..._ah. _Bruce Wayne's butler—Aloysius? Albert? Alfred?

"Alfred?" She blurted this without thinking, and again became aware that she had drawn the attention of her colleagues, but she was still too stunned to think properly. As the man looked over to her, Janey knew she had the name right. "You are Alfred, right?" Without thinking, she began to move towards him.

Recognition dawned upon him. "You're Janey, are you not? Miss de Burgh's friend?"

"Yes, I am. I work here. I guess...I guess you heard?"

"A little," Alfred confirmed. "How is she?"

"Don't know—she's not here yet. I'm _freaking out _here, I just found out." Janey glanced back at her colleagues; by that time, they were beginning to scatter to prepare and man their stations. "The EMTs should be coming in any time now." A thought occurred to Janey. "Where's Bruce? Isn't he with you?"

_A valid question, _Alfred thought unhappily. _Where indeed? _"Master Wayne had some other, pressing, obligations to which he had to attend, and he sent me here in his stead. He'll be along as soon as he can."

"Unbelievable." Janey turned away for a moment, and when she looked at Alfred again, the anger in her eyes was scorching. "Un-_fucking-_believable. You work for a worthless sack of scum, you know that? You _are _aware, aren't you, that your employer's future child is at risk? This isn't just Annabeth's life we're talking about, here."

Alfred didn't even bother to go on the defensive; nor did he take offense at her words. To the contrary, he had long since developed an amazingly thick skin and become adept at deflecting assaults aimed at Bruce Wayne through his affable butler. "All very good points, my dear, and perhaps it would beneficial to all parties if you pointed that out to the nice surgeon in charge over there?"

Glancing back over her shoulder, Janey saw that the night surgeon, Dr. Andrews, had arrived onto the scene and was now consulting with the Head Nurse. "You're absolutely right," she agreed. "And you should be the one to tell him."

_Dammit. Bloody well figures. _Alfred wasn't often outwitted or out-maneuvered, but he had to admit, Annabeth de Burgh's friend had temporarily given him a run for his money.

They caught up with the surgeon just as he was about to head off to inspect the operating theater. "Dr. Andrews?" Janey called softly.

"Yes, Nurse Lightoller?"

"A very quick moment of your time." She saw him about to protest, so she hastened to forestall him. "It's about Annabeth de Burgh, the woman you're about to save."

Dr. Andrews shook his head at what he clearly saw to be misplaced optimism. "Lightoller, I know she's your friend, and I'll do my best, but I can't make any-"

"Would you make any promises if I told you she was the fiancee of Bruce Wayne?" Even as the words popped out of her mouth, Janey was caught by surprise. Where the hell had that come from?"

Thankfully, Dr. Andrews didn't notice that she was bluffing. "Oh, shit." He looked away for a moment. "Anything else you care to share with me?"

"And that she's carrying the unborn heir to the Wayne family fortune?" This came from Alfred, who had quickly and successfully covered his surprise at Janey's outrageous lie.

"Fuck." Dr. Andrews stalked off abruptly, leaving Alfred and Janey alone and in suspense.

"Fiancee?" Alfred looked askance at Janey.

"It's about as accurate as 'heir to the Wayne family fortune,'" Janey retorted. "Figured it would have more cred than 'another one of Wayne's conquests.'"

Alfred had to admit she was right on that one. "And now what?"

"Now we just wait. And stay out of the way."

* * *

They didn't have long to wait for the next development. Annabeth de Burgh came into the Emergency Room less than five minutes later.

From where they sat in the slick, cold waiting room chairs, Alfred and Janey could hear the sirens approaching. Wisely, they stayed out of the way as the hospital staff began to scurry about. They stayed out of the way as the EMTs and the stretcher burst through the doors, and they stayed out of the way even as they saw Annabeth's deathly white face and the blood-soaked hands of the EMTs. They stayed out of the way as the medical staff and the stretcher bearing her disappeared behind the "Authorized Staff Only" doors.

Only as the swinging doors whispered shut did Janey have a blind moment of instinct. She moved into the direction of the doors behind which Annabeth was even now being treated, but Alfred's surprisingly firm hand on her forearm kept her from making that mistake. "Let them do their work, my dear," he said softly.

So they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

At one point, Janey shifted in her hard, uncomfortable seat and grimaced. "I am going to have _so _much more sympathy for the patients' families when they come in here from now on."

At another point, Alfred nearly dozed off. Janey watched in sympathy as his head sank lower and lower into his chest, until, suddenly, with a quick, in-drawn breath, he jerked completely awake again.

"If I were you, I'd ask for a bonus," Janey said. Her disapproval over Bruce Wayne's absence was still palpable. "What's Bruce playing at, sending you here?"

"He's a busy man." Alfred was studiously avoiding her gaze. He may have been an accomplished actor, but even he had to cringe in the face of such righteous indignation. "He will get here as soon as I can, I promise."

And they waited some more.

Two hours after Annabeth had gone into the ER, Janey checked her watch. "It's almost midnight. And no one's come out of there with news yet."

Alfred nodded, but he didn't respond. He knew that this was—relatively—a good thing. If no one had come out to tell anything to Janey, the emergency contact, well, it meant that they were still working on Annabeth. Small comfort, perhaps, but they'd take what they could get.

Not long after that, things began to happen.

First, Janey's boyfriend, Jason, burst into the Emergency Room. He had gotten Janey's text a while back, but his shift at the factory had just ended. He rushed directly to Janey and enveloped her in an enormous hug. "Any word?" he asked, his voice muffled in her hair.

"Nothing. Not yet," Janey told him as she untangled herself from Jason's arms. "I think they're still in surgery."

Jason eyed Alfred suspiciously. "Who's he?"

"Chill, Jason. It's...a friend of Bruce Wayne's." Janey didn't elaborate, and thankfully, Jason didn't ask her to. He simply stepped back and eyed Alfred for a moment, before he briefly nodded. "I guess he's alright then."

His slightly hostile nature didn't perturb Alfred in the slightest. He had gotten the measure of Annabeth long ago, and had thus assessed that Janey and Jason were her support network, the closest thing to family that she had—well, that she _knew_ she had, at least.

The three of them settled back down into the waiting room, but they didn't have long to wait before the next stir alleviated the tension. Following the same path that Jason took, Maya hurried through the doors less than half an hour later.

"Jesus jumped-up Christ!" Jason ejaculated.

Even Alfred, seasoned as he was to the various injuries his employer had sustained, had to cringe as he beheld the battered woman in front of them. Maya was barely recognizable; her left eye was nearly swollen shut, her upper lit was split, and other bruises, angry and colorful, marched down the left side of her face.

Janey had met Maya a time or two before, but was having a difficult time ascertaining that her instincts were true. "You're...from Safe Haven, right? Mona?"

"Maya," Maya corrected. "And you're Janey? Annabeth's friend?"

Janey nodded reassuringly. "I am." She paused, considering the appropriate way to phrase her next words, and then gave up. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"I got off lucky." Maya glanced at Alfred and Jason questioningly, and Janey took the cue.

"This is my partner, Jason, and this is...Alfred. I guess he's Bruce's butler." Janey cast a frowning look at Alfred, who blithely ignored it.

Distracted as she was, Maya didn't notice the tension, but she did pick up on the omission. "Bruce's butler? But...where's Bruce?"

"A valid question," Janey remarked acidly.

"Master Wayne will be here shortly," Alfred said, sounding for all the world as though he were annoucing Master Wayne was only running late for his tee-off time.

Maya didn't look happy, but she didn't have a say in the matter. And as of a couple of hours prior, she had bigger problems. "Have you heard anything about Annabeth?"

Janey shook her head. "As clichéd as it is, right now no news is _very _good news." She studied Maya's facial injuries. "Have you gotten all of that treated?"

Shrugging it off, Maya snapped, "I'm fine." There were other things on her mind. "Did anyone tell you what happened? How Annabeth got shot?"

Janey and Jason shook their heads. Alfred remained discreetly quiet.

"Some of the Arrows mob got into the building tonight...they were looking for one of the clients. And they took us hostage, and there was this one guy...Seth, I think his name was..." Maya frowned as she recalled his icy stare. "He had it in for Donna and Annabeth both. I think he was just looking for a reason to hurt them. And then he started talking about some jacked-up shit about having married Donna, and I think he was trying to imply..." Here she drifted off. "The thing is, I don't know a lot about Annabeth's family or her life, so I can't say absolutely that it's not true."

"That _what's _not true?" Janey demanded.

"He said that...that Donna was Annabeth's mother."

Hardened Gotham natives though Janey and Jason were, this was not something that they encountered every day. Stunned, they stared at Maya for a moment. Only Alfred wasn't surprised; he had discovered as much during the course of the harrowing evening. But this was not something he could share with the people who were even now learning the truth behind Annabeth's past.

"I know it sounds crazy, but frankly, right now that's the least of my concerns." It was obvious that Maya was not having a great day. "That freak shot Annabeth to get to Donna, and then after the cops came in, someone shot Donna. She's dead, Annabeth is in christ only knows what condition, Safe Haven is a wreck, and I've got to find a way to handle the various women who are still desperate enough to still want to have anything to do with us." It sounded selfish, Maya knew, when considered against Donna's violent end and Annabeth's uncertain present, but she was facing a major crisis, the likes of which she had never encountered during her stint as Donna's assistant. "But I had to find out how Annabeth's doing."

"We don't know anything yet," Janey told her unhappily.

Just then, Maya's cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, made an apologetic face at the group, and muffled her voice as she answered. "This is Maya..."

"Something tells me that she's now the de facto Director of Safe Haven," Jason observed to no one in particular. And no one answered him, because at that moment, Dr. Andrews emerged from the emergency theater. Janey and Jason instinctively joined hands, Alfred lifted his weary head, and Maya simply, silently hung up on whoever she had been speaking to.

They waited.

Dr. Andrews smiled, but his gaze was both weary and wary. "I think the worst might be behind us."

Maya let out a choked sound, but other than that, they remained silent.

"Your friend's a very lucky woman. Much longer, and she would have lost too much blood. As it was..." he stopped, then reconsidered his words. "Not only that, but the ammunition that hit her wasn't a hollow-point bullet. It was a full-metal-jacket bullet. I'm going to assume here that most of you don't know much about that, and that's fine—what you need to know is that a hollow-point bullet expands once it's in the body and can cause massive damage. And so, Annabeth got hit by a bullet which didn't destroy her insides, and more to the point, missed the major organs. We got the bleeding under control, removed the bullet from the abdominal tissue...she was in hemorrhagic shock, and her blood pressure dropped a couple of times, but it was remarkably straightforward."

"So she's alive?" This came from Jason.

"Alive, yes. For now, and hopefully for a very long time. If there's no infection, no sudden bleeding, she should be out of the woods in a day or two. She's heavily sedated, and they're moving her up to ICU. The next thirty-six hours are going to be the most critical."

Janey buried her head in Jason's chest and cried. Maya looked immeasurably relieved, but Alfred remained grave—mainly because Dr. Andrews did not have the expression of someone who had just performed a flawless surgery. And his next words only confirmed Alfred's caution.

"Janey, I still need to have a word with you in private."

Her joy instantaneously froze. "What is it?"

"Come with me, so we can talk."

Alfred, Jason, and Maya watched as the surgeon led Janey away. There was no time to speculate about his cryptic behavior, however, because just as they disappeared back into the staff area, the emergency room doors slid open, and Bruce Wayne rushed inside. Maya and Jason, in particular, took in his disheveled appearance as he glanced right and left, at first not seeing them. His shirt was untucked, his cashmere scarf had been draped carelessly around his neck, his coat was unbuttoned, and his hair was profoundly mussed; in short, he looked as far removed from his normal preppy appearance as one could possibly imagine. At least, this was what Maya thought. Jason would later observe to Janey, with much less charity, that it looked as though "Wayne just popped out of a whorehouse without bothering to get completely dressed."

In a way, he was right.

Bruce's eyes finally registered Maya, and he made a beeline for her. "Where is she? Where's Annabeth?"

In response, Maya smacked him, hard. It was a blow which cracked across the lobby and caught the attention of not only Alfred and Jason, but also Elia, still attending the check-in desk and trying not to stare in fascination.

"Where the hell were you?" Maya cried. "This whole godawful night, _where the fuck were you?"_

Bruce stared at her. Jason and Alfred tried to look deeply interested with their shoes

"I mean it, Bruce. Donna's dead, Safe Haven's completely in disarray, Annabeth's been in surgery...and we heard _nothing _from you. You claimed to take us on, you claimed a position of leadership...and then _you disappeared." _Tears were beginning to stream down Maya's bruised face, and then she fell entirely apart.

Blindly, Bruce pulled her to him and held her as she sobbed. Over the top of her head, however, he steadily met Alfred's gaze and raised a questioning eyebrow. Alfred shrugged.

"We're fucked, Bruce," Maya choked out from the depths of his hug.

"Shhh," he said. "We'll figure something out." He gently extracted her and got a good look at her face. "Christ, Maya, they did a number on you. What happened?"

"I don't know," Maya said. "I still don't know much. I don't suppose we'll learn anything for a while. But Annabeth..." she started to tear up again. "I think she'll be okay. But I don't know about Safe Haven. Things are pretty bad right now."

Bruce nodded. "Tell me what you know."

Before Maya could say anything more, Janey emerged back into the lobby. Whatever relief she had previously experienced had since vanished from her face, and in fact, she looked as though she had aged several years in several minutes. Even when she saw Bruce, there was no anger in her eyes—if anything, she only looked more defeated.

"Janey?" Bruce asked. "How is she?"

"She's..." Janey's voice cracked, and she seemed to lose her nerve for a moment. After a moment, she regained her composure. "The doctor says it looks promising. They got the bullet out, and there wasn't any organ damage. She's still under anesthesia, and they're taking her up to ICU right now."

Still, she looked profoundly unhappy. Devastated, even.

"Janey?" Bruce prompted.

She approached him, and the heart-wrenching pity in her eyes was answer enough. Gently, she placed a hand on his arm. "It...there was _a lot _of blood loss. Annabeth survived, and they think she should recover, but..."

He just stared at her for a moment, and Janey began to wonder if he had understood. "You know what I'm saying, right? Bruce, the baby miscarried."

She stood there, waiting for him to respond, to indicate that he had heard. And then when he finally answered, it was not the answer she was expecting.

"That's not possible." He said this almost angrily. "You're wrong."

Even Alfred looked surprised by this less-than-logical response.

"Bruce..." Janey tried to soothe him, but he wouldn't let her.

"You're _wrong..._people can't miscarry because of _blood loss." _Bruce's voice started to grow louder. "What the hell do you know? Why would the doctor tell you, anyway? Annabeth didn't miscarry. The baby is fine."

"No, Mr. Wayne, it's not."

Dr. Andrews had appeared again, no doubt summoned by Elia as soon as the commotion began. He gazed at Bruce with the practiced but rote sympathy of a professional who had done this many times before. "I told Janey in private, as she was the designated next of kin. Seeing as how she's chosen to tell you all, I'll explain the best I can. The baby miscarried because it was likely going to miscarry at some point. I'm not Annabeth's primary physician, but I've been made acquainted with her medical history, and from what I can see, her uterus was ultimately going to provide a hostile environment for any fetus. She was going to lose the baby—this might have been a catalyst, and so it happened sooner rather than later. Perhaps for the better."

The words were cutting enough, but delivered in such a clinical, detached tone only sharpened the blade that pierced the hearts of those who knew and loved Annabeth best. Janey stared at Dr. Andrews in amazement, and for a moment, Bruce did too. And then his face twisted with an expression which could only be described as an ugly, primal rage. Alfred moved towards him, a restraining hand outstretched, but as quickly as the rage came upon Bruce, it left once more, leaving in its wake a face sculpted from ice.

"Dr. Andrews," he said grimly, "I'm so pleased to see she had such a _stellar _surgeon to guide her through this _unscathed._ So nice to see how much you value every human life."

For a moment, Dr. Andrews stared at Bruce, attempting to gauge the amount of sarcasm in his words, but Bruce's uncompromising gaze gave nothing away, and so, finally, the doctor gave an abrupt nod, choosing to ignore whatever irony there was in the air. "I'll let you know when we have her settled into a room in ICU."

After the doctor departed, leaving behind him the worst news, letting it wreak havoc in the world of so many, what was there to do? Dumbly, Alfred and Bruce stared at each other; in all that they had faced, all that they had prepared for and battled against, this was something entirely, altogether new, a strange grief. Janey and Jason simply embraced and drew comfort from each other, even as they contemplated the loss that Annabeth would face when she emerged from the anesthesia. And Maya simply stood, uncomprehending, as she struggled to come to terms with this latest piece of information.

And then, once more, her phone rang. She glanced down at it, in confusion, and then her expression cleared. "I think it's the Gotham PD. I've got to take this."

She stepped outside, and it was as if a spell had been broken. Hateful, harsh reality descended on them all once more. Annabeth and Bruce had lost the baby they had barely begun to expect, Donna was dead, and Maya was struggling to keep Safe Haven from falling to pieces. There was still business to be done. Numbly, Bruce followed Maya outside, not only to see what he could help with, but to distract himself from the frightening, yawning grief that had unexpectedly taken root within.

Only Bruce was awake and waiting when Annabeth finally emerged from the anesthesia.

In her status as surrogate sister and BFF, Janey had co-opted the seat closest to Annabeth's bed. She had finally fallen asleep around two that morning, her head drooping in snoring defeat as she succumbed to exhaustion. By the time that Annabeth began to stir, Janey was in a deep, peaceful sleep, a quiet place untouched by the worries that had sent her to sleep to begin with. Bruce had seated himself further away, in the corner, but what he lacked in proximity he made up for in vigilance. As Janey sawed gently away, and the machines surrounding Annabeth beeped on, Bruce sat silently, unhappily accompanied by only his morose thoughts and his watchfulness.

And so, fittingly, it was Bruce who was awake and ready to accompany Annabeth as she slowly began the struggle back to wakefulness. It was Bruce who was immediately there by her bed, grasping her hand, and it was Bruce who Annabeth first saw when she opened her eyes. It was Bruce who was there to offer her the guidance she needed to confront this brave new world of fresh disappointment and heartbreak.

Behind Bruce, Janey slumbered on.

"Bruce?"

Her voice sounded small and frightened, but her eyes were clear.

"Hey," he said softly, leaning against the bedrails. "How are you feeling?"

For a moment, it looked as though she was struggling to speak. She tried once, and her voice came out a raspy croak. She swallowed and tried again, and this time, her voice was surprisingly strong. "I feel as shitty as you look." It was true, too—she felt like hell, but Bruce certainly looked like it. The shadows under his eyes were sharper than she had ever seen them before. He hadn't shaved in almost a day, and the stubble was beginning to show. "Am I...I must be in the hospital."

"You are."

"Figured I'd end up here eventually." This was the last bravado Annabeth could spare; as she became more fully awake, reality began to rush back. And so did her memories of the nightmare that had unfolded. She began to struggle to haul herself into a sitting position. "What happened? Safe Haven—Bruce, _what happened?"_ Her breath caught as a searing pain tore through her stomach. "Oh jesus."

"Annabeth...stop. Please." With deliberate calmness, Bruce placed his hands on her shoulders and began to press her back down into the bed. "You've been shot, which you know. You're going to be fine, _I promise. _I've got a doctor, an old friend, coming in tomorrow to help. And I'm going to stay here with you...but they'll make me leave you if you get upset. I really don't want that to happen." His hands moved from her shoulders up to her head as he gently stroked her hair. "Come on. Breathe slowly...breathe..."

Behind him, he heard Janey finally begin to stir to wakefulness. She got up and placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed once, gently, before ducking out of the room, presumably to get the doctor.

Now Bruce and Annabeth were completely alone. He watched her, lying still on the hospital bed, pale, so dwarfed by the machines which loomed around her tiny frame. And, gathering from the pinched look around her mouth, she was still in some pain. "Bruce?"

"I'm still here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I need to know..." She opened her eyes, and though the pain was evident, they burned as intensely as ever. "The anesthesia...when they put me under, I didn't say anything? Anything that could get anyone into trouble?"

He knew exactly what she was referring to. "No one knows anything. You didn't breathe a word." He didn't know that, actually, but Alfred hadn't reported any federal agents paying the Manor an unannounced visit, or gathering to arrest him in the waiting room, and so he assumed Annabeth had remained circumspect, even when in the throes of whatever anesthesia or pain medication they had given her. And even if she had inadvertently revealed something, he would never let her know. Whatever words would keep her calm, keep her healing, he would say. "You didn't say _anything."_

Even as he was reassuring her, utter admiration was creeping into his mind. She had been traumatized, shot at, brought near to death, she was about to be given some truly horrible news—and one of her first questions was to inquire about Bruce's "work." Up until now, he had never truly realized the extent to which Annabeth was a very formidable partner. The kind of partner he would do well to have by his side, in both work and life.

"I know how this works, Bruce." Annabeth's voice broke into his thoughts. "All the damned doctors and nurses will be in here before too much longer. And they're not going to tell me anything, not yet. They're going to say 'stay calm' and 'try to rest.' So I'm going to ask you, and I need for you to tell me, because _it's my right_ to know what happened. So _tell me._"

Bruce had gone into many situations that had required a great deal of courage—or an equal amount of stupidity—but into no situation had he gone with the same kind of dread which was now so powerfully pulling down his soul. "Percival shot you...and you lost a lot of blood. The bullet lodged in your abdomen, but it didn't damage any organs, which was damned lucky. If we can keep infection at bay, you should be fine." He tried to smile encouragingly, but he was horribly aware of how fake and hollow the smile was. "I'm sure Seth Percival is supremely annoyed right now."

Annabeth wasn't fooled, and Bruce's obvious avoidance set off some warning alarms. "What about the baby?" Her voice became smaller, afraid. "Bruce? Our baby?"

Up until that point, Bruce had held it together like a pro—like the Batman. But as Annabeth gazed up at him, her eyes already knowing the news he was about to give her, he finally, nearly lost it. "Annabeth...the baby..._our _baby didn't make it."

For one brief moment, grief overcame his efforts to remain calm and stoic, and to his dismay, he began to feel the stinging of tears—of sorrow, of anger, of desolation, as much for himself as for Annabeth—assaulting eyes.

It was the sight of the tears that helped Annabeth to stifle her natural reaction. The pain was growing greater, but it was a boon in that it sharpened her focus, brought her to utter alertness. Bruce was near tears, and there was a howling grief within her soul, just waiting for her to acknowledge it and give it free reign to run rampant, unleashing the bitter sobs that she was even now struggling to hold back.

_Not now._

She nodded grimly. "I thought as much. There's pain...down there, and I figured that was why." _Keep it together, de Burgh. Keep it together for Bruce._She knew, instinctively, that he did not want to cry. Tears were useless to him. Action was the only thing that would help. And so she resolved to make every effort to hide her own tears; burdening him with her pain was too much to ask. She summoned up all of her remaining strength and wits and began to speak again. This time her voice was lower, as fatigue was beginning to overcome her. Bruce had to lean in close to hear what she was saying. "What's that? What are you saying?"

After a moment, her words registered. "Don't cry. _Don't you dare cry. _If you cry, we're all fucked."

Astonishment made him jerk back for a moment, and drove back the tears, as well as the awareness of them lurking. Was that humor? Sure enough, a tiny, brittle smile was playing at Annabeth's lips. "Seriously. _Real _Batmen don't cry."

Suddenly, his hands grasped hers once more, and together they held tight as though an unseen force was just beyond the bed, waiting to try to tear them away.

That was how Dr. Andrews and Janey found them—silent, holding hands, each one with an expression of agonized determination on their face. For Janey, it was heartbreaking to watch: she could see, instantly, that each of them were determined not to burden the other with their pain. For Dr. Andrews, there was no such perceptive sensitivity. He was utterly oblivious or utterly indifferent, and he bustled in, the picture of rude health and ruder emotions. "Miss de Burgh! So glad to see you decided to wake up." He glanced at Bruce and Janey. "I'm going to examine her, and if she seems up to it, once I'm done you can both come back."

They recognized it as the dismissal it was, and Janey, better versed the medical arrogance of Dr. Andrews, gently took Bruce's arm. "Let's go tell Alfred the good news."

After one long, unhappy glance back at Annabeth, Bruce allowed himself to be pried away. He remained stoic and quiet as they emerged back into the hallway, and he stayed that way until they had made their way halfway down the hall. And then, abruptly, Bruce tore away from Janey and started back up the hall.

"Bruce!" Janey hissed, taken aback. "What the fuck are you doing?" She took off after him and grabbed on to his arm. "Come away...come on."

He shook her off with a violent force that took her by surprise, and when he looked at her, Janey had the strange sensation that he didn't see her at all. His eyes were...not wild. Rather, they were narrow, focused, and icy with rage.

And then he blindly punched the wall.

"Bruce." Janey moved in front of him, praying that that she didn't resemble another wall. "You're in an ICU word, goddammit. Pull yourself together." She noted that suddenly, he was breathing quite heavily, as though he has just finished running a marathon. And then he reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall he had just tried to pulverize, and she saw that his arm was shaking. _Coming down from an adrenaline high, _she realized. As far as she could tell, he hadn't slept at all. "Come on," she said again, this time with infinite gentleness. "Let the doctor do what he needs to do."

"That piece of shit?" Bruce's face twisted into a grimace of pained disgust, and he didn't even notice the surprised look cross Janey's face. "He's an arrogant asshole. You see how he acts, hell, you work with him. Think about Annabeth—you think he has tact or compassion?" Again, he started to move back down the hall, but Janey's voice stopped him.

"I don't think he does, no, but right now, I'm not sure about you, either." Janey could say what needed to be said to her best friend, and she was quite happy to extend the same courtesy to her best friend's lover—_or whatever the hell he is, _she mentally added. "I can only imagine how she's doing...or how you're doing, for that matter. But going in there while you're in this state is only going to hurt her. I saw how you were when you came out of there—collected and calm. We need for you to be that way again."

Bruce's breathing began to slow down as he stared down at her. "Why does it always have to be like this?"

It was an odd question, coming from him. But once again, Janey had the sensation that he was not seeing her, and that he had not asked that question of her at all. Still, there was nobody else around... "I don't know, Bruce. I sure as hell don't know."

They made their way back to the waiting room, where by now, only Alfred was waiting. Jason had returned home to get some sleep, and Maya had retreated as well, presumably to rest up before she began the struggle of restoring a semblance of order to Safe Haven. But there Alfred was, as vigilant as Bruce in his own way, wide awake and sweetly anxious. "What is it?"

"She's awake," Bruce said bleakly. "The doctor's with her now."

"Oh dear," was Alfred's faint reply. "That _is _unfortunate."

They didn't have long to wait before Dr. Andrews came to them. He smiled cheerfully at them. "All is well. Her vital signs are surprisingly strong. She should be as good as new in no time, if she's as tough as her reputation claims. Anyway, she's wide awake now. Could probably use some company." With that, he was off again, presumably to impart barbed information to other patients and their families.

"I am seriously beginning to think that man is a sociopath," Bruce muttered.

"Ivy League reject, I think." Janey glanced at Alfred. "Did you want to see Annabeth?"

Alfred glanced at Bruce, but Janey gave a slight, sharp shake of her head. "I know Annabeth wants to see you, Alfred. Room 1208, on the left."

So the older man left Bruce and Janey taking their seats in the waiting room, And he didn't see as Bruce tilted his head back and gazed up at a ceiling which held no answers, and as Janey buried her head in her hands and finally gave vent to the sorrow she had held at bay for too long.

_We all love Annabeth, _Alfred thought once more. _Each of us, in our own way, love her._

This thought accompanied him as he approached her room, and as he came to the door, he listened carefully.

And heard nothing.

Softly, he knocked. There was no answer, so he knocked again. There was still no answer. Briefly, Alfred thought of Master Bruce, out in the waiting room, but then decided not to fetch him. It was entirely possible—in fact, rather likely—that Annabeth wouldn't want to see Bruce again, so soon, and that Bruce needed at least a moment to gather his wits. Hesitantly at first, and then with growing surety, he pushed her door in and entered.

Her bed faced the door, and so he saw Annabeth right away. And she was wide-awake, staring at the ceiling in much the same way that Alfred had last seen Bruce doing. She didn't even acknowledge his presence.

Alfred wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted. _But it isn't about me, _he pointed out to himself. And then walked over to the hospital bed to offer what paltry comfort he could. For whatever reason, perhaps not even known to themselves, Bruce and Annabeth were not yet able to comfort each other, perhaps because neither was willing to show to the other the extent of their pain. And quite possibly, they weren't ready to show anyone else, either.

_Sometimes I think they're a little too perfect for each other._


	48. Chapter 48

**_Headline from the 23 December 2008 Front Page of _The Gotham Gazette:**

_Violent Night: A Christmas Season Gone Horribly Wrong in the Heart of Gotham_

_One person is dead and another person critically injured after a stunning act of violence left one of the city's prominent halfway houses ransacked and reeling._

_Mob violence is suspected to be the culprit, Commissioner Jim Gordon confirmed, although, he added, "Personal motives are not being ruled out."_

_At approximately 6 PM on December 22, select members of the Arrows mob staged a lightning-strike invasion on Safe Haven Consulting Services, a halfway house which was recently catapulted into the limelight when it became Bruce Wayne's Pet Project of the season. It appears that the offenders were attempting to kidnap a key witness in both local and federal law enforcement investigations._

_While details are still emerging, several facts have been confirmed: 1. Multiple shots were fired on behalf of the offenders; 2. One woman was killed and another sustained a severe gunshot wound, and 3. It was due to the timely intervention of Gordon and his MCU team, along with the unsolicited assistance of the Batman, which brought the siege to its end._

_One witness, speaking on condition of anonymity, offered the following statement:_

_"It was really scary in there. We thought we were going to die. But the Batman, he was everywhere, like a ninja. I'm so glad he was on our side, because man, I sure wouldn't want him to be our enemy."_

_The names of the casualties have not been released to the press, and Commissioner Gordon refuses to confirm rumors that Annabeth de Burgh, recent love-interest of Bruce Wayne, and devoted Safe Haven employee, is one of the victims._

_At the time of press, Safe Haven is closed until further notice, although remaining staff are scrambling to restore order. For those wishing to volunteer or donate goods, services, or money, the Wayne Foundation has set up a temporary 24-hour hotline at 735-812-2004._

Even when the Joker was terrorizing Gotham, raining down chaos and violence and indiscriminate death and destruction, the city had more or less carried on. At least, Annabeth had carried on at Safe Haven. During those frightening days, she had showed up at work, dressed in her thrift-store suits, cranky and driven as ever, demanding coffee and excellence, offering comfort or a stern talking-to, whichever the client or colleague needed most. During those frightening days, her steadfast presence unintentionally calmed many of the Safe Haven clients. If Annabeth wasn't panicking, well then, neither would they. She carried on, same as ever; the only concession or indeed, any acknowledgment she made at all to the unfolding chaos, was the temporary beefing-up of security. Other than that, business as usual.

So it was perversely fitting, in a way, that after Gotham unleashed her cruelty upon Safe Haven, the rest of the world carried on as normal. Children still got excited about Christmas and begged their beleaguered and cash-strapped parents for more gifts, people still went to work and complained of the weather and tried to ignore the latest victims. But Vicki Vale's efforts ensured this was not just "business as usual." A front-page story, in addition to a little shameless invocation of the power and name of Wayne, guaranteed that this story wouldn't be tucked away on the back page. It guaranteed that people would not be able to look away.

But even though the citizens of Gotham couldn't look away, they could —and did—still carry on.

Maya saw this with her own weary eyes the next morning, a few painfully short hours after she had headed home. Despite the pathetic amount of sleep that she had gotten, she was already heading back into the city, riding the shuttle with the other distracted commuters. It was Annabeth's influence coming to bear: life went on. Shit still needed to get done.

By 10:30 that morning, she was wearily shuffling into the ICU Waiting Room at Gotham General. She glanced around, but only saw Bruce Wayne's butler. He sat quietly, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee and looking suspiciously alert and well-groomed for someone who had pulled an all-nighter at a hospital. In fact...she studied the older man more closely. He was in an entirely different suit altogether! How had he managed that trick?

"Why do I have the sneaking suspicion you've managed to set up a room for yourself up here?" she asked, without bothering to keep the note of accusation out of her voice.

Alfred merely smiled. No need to tell her that a few well-dropped hints had in fact sent some hospital staff members scurrying to produce an unoccupied room just a few doors down from Annabeth's. There he had managed to snag a few hours of sleep and a quick shower. In addition to this, he had had Jessica over at Wayne Towers courier over some gourmet coffee and bagels, the latest newspapers, and a change of clothes for both Bruce and himself. No, there was no need at all to mention any of that lfred had the supreme good sense to know when not to broadcast the life of privilege that came as a result of being connected to the Wayne family. He did, however, gesture to the vat of coffee and the box of bagels. "Looks as though you could use something to fortify you, my dear. Please help yourself."

Maya didn't need any urging. She made a beeline for the vat and helped herself to a steaming cup. Only after she had taken a few cautious sips did she attempt a more civil conversation. "I'm beginning to see why Annabeth has always mainlined this stuff...how is she this morning?"

"Sleeping. Other than that, no change." Alfred glanced towards the hall towards Annabeth's room. "The doctor seems to think she's going to recover."

"Janey sent me a text early this morning; that's what she said, too." Maya smiled wanly. "That's something, at least. But...where is everyone?"

"Janey returned home, finally, to get some sleep. And Master Wayne is still with Annabeth."

"Good!" Maya said fiercely. She saw Alfred's ill-disguised surprise, and shrugged. "She needs her people around her. And it's about time Bruce Wayne stuck around."

Alfred coughed delicately, and only then did Maya remember a lesson her former boss had drummed into her head dozens of times._"Say less, more," _Donna had always admonished her. Well, what the hell? Donna was dead, and she had been discreet as anything—perhaps too much so—and Annabeth had nearly died, and never bothered to keep her mouth shut. So which was the better method? Maya was beyond the point where she could possibly give a damn.

_Staring down a barrel of a gun can do that to you, I guess, _she admitted ruefully. And so could spending the better part of a night at a hospital with almost total strangers, all of them rooting for the same outcome. It tended to break down a lot of barriers thrown up by traditional good manners.

"Perhaps," Alfred suggested tactfully, "This would be a good time for me to coax Master Wayne away? I imagine you have several things to discuss with him about Safe Haven—" her anxious grimace proved his worried assumptions correct— "and then he could do with a few hours' sleep. I promise I'll stay with Annabeth as long as she wants me, and likely longer than that, too."

Whatever weary hostility Maya had directed towards him instantly melted away. "Would you? That would be—_so _helpful._"_ She collapsed into one of the waiting room chairs, and Alfred took that as his cue to go off and track down Master Wayne.

Although Annabeth had finally fallen back into a drugged sleep, Bruce hadn't moved from her side since much earlier that morning. Nor had he slept. He was still there when Alfred went in to fetch him, and he didn't look pleased to be routed from his watch.

"I'm not leaving," were his exact, growled words. At no point did he look away from Annabeth. "So don't bother to ask me to."

Alfred ignored this statement. "Maya is in the waiting room, Master Wayne. She needs to speak with you."

"She can wait."

Alfred gazed at Annabeth's pale, still form for a moment before he answered Bruce. "Poor dear. She's got no idea how things are falling down all around her. I feel badly for her. When she finally comes around, everything will be at sixes and sevens."

Bruce only nodded in agreement.

"Perhaps, sir, you'd indulge me for just a moment when I say to you that, until Miss Annabeth is back on her feet again, you and that young lady out there are the only two people who can really keep Safe Haven going. Don't you think you'll be more use to Miss Annabeth if you're out there, trying to salvage what she's spent the last few years of her life trying to build up? What she has lost so much for? Wouldn't that make her sacrifice in vain?" Fearlessly Alfred stared down the younger man, and for once, Bruce was forced to concede.

"You'll stay with her?"

Alfred nodded, and before he could say anything else in persuasion, Bruce was on his feet and moving towards the door. "You're right._Dammit. _I hate it when you're right."

Right or wrong, there was too much to be done for Alfred to press the point any more. He simply settled himself down beside Annabeth and watched as once more, Bruce Wayne answered the call of everyone else's needs but his own.

* * *

It was an unhappy, and yet fortunate, set of circumstances which made it quite lucky that Bruce was not at the hospital that day.

First, the drugs in Annabeth's system finally wore off, and she awoke to not only quite a bit of pain, but also her normal coherence and lucidity. Reality set in right at the same time as did physical discomfort, and Alfred thanked the fickle fates for sending Bruce away before he could see Annabeth as she slowly came to terms with her new life.

She came awake, and her eyes lit onto Alfred. "Jesus," she croaked. "I must be bad off if Bruce got you out of the Manor."

He smiled, and it was a soft, gentle laugh which sounded absurdly out of place against all the beeping, clicking, ticking machines. "Not at all. I just decided to keep you company for a while. How are you, my dear?"

Annabeth shrugged, and although it was a weak, feeble gesture, it spoke volumes: of her unwillingness to complain, mostly, but also of her insistent dignity: even at her worst, she would not admit to any sort of compromising weakness. "I'm here." She tried to hoist herself up, much as she had done earlier that morning, but again, the searing pain prevented her. Alfred instinctively jerked forward as she gasped. "Christ, that was bad." She glanced over at him. "Does the bed raise up?"

"You don't want to do that, Ms. de Burgh—not yet, anyway."

The new voice came from the doorway, and both Annabeth and Alfred peered over. An older woman stood in the doorway, and as Alfred realized who it was, he visibly brightened. "Leslie!"

She smiled back. "Alfred, it's been too long."

Alfred turned to Annabeth. "This is Dr. Leslie Thompkins, Annabeth."

"Another doctor," Annabeth sighed. "Fabulous." She eyed the woman, and decided that, with her tall elegance, her silver hair, and her kind eyes, she couldn't be too awful. At the very least, she couldn't say anything that Annabeth didn't already know.

"I'm an old friend of Alfred and Bruce's," Leslie Thompkins explained. "Do you mind if I call you Annabeth?"

"I've been called worse," was her laconic reply.

Dr. Thompkins glanced at Alfred, as if to say, _No weepy, wilting flower here, eh? _"Bruce and Alfred wanted to bring me in...I think they've got a specialist coming in later today, but they wanted someone personally involved, in the know, who can advocate for you and help you all through this."

"I'm pretty sure my insurance won't cover that."

"I'm pretty sure it won't matter." Leslie glanced at Alfred. "You have a lot of people who care a great deal about you, and want to make sure you're getting the best possible care. With your permission, I'd like to talk with you, and then do a cursory examination. Then I'm going to talk to the surgeon...Dr. Andrews, was it?"

Annabeth nodded.

"Splendid. I know him well. A fine colleague." Was that sarcasm in Leslie's voice? In her current state, Annabeth couldn't be sure. Her memories of Dr. Andrews were fairly hazy. "So..." Leslie glanced at Alfred again. "Would you mind terribly if I were to speak to Annabeth privately?"

"Not at all." Alfred smiled down at Annabeth. "I'll be right outside, Miss Annabeth, but I promise you you're in the best hands."

The two women watched him leave, and then, as he closed the door softly behind him, Leslie turned back to Annabeth. "Tired of being coddled?"

"Getting there." Annabeth admitted this readily, and then managed to muster up a grin. "I'm getting restless...I want news. Information. I want to know what's going on."

"I can imagine. And I'm sorry to say I don't have any news, at least not yet." She settled herself down beside Annabeth's bed. "But I also wanted to say—Bruce told me about your baby. I'm so sorry."

An odd look crossed over Annabeth's face, as she clenched her jaw against an unseen pain. "I...thanks. It's just that...there's so much that I'm trying to process, and I'm not sure it's really sunk in yet. That I lost the baby...I barely had the time to get used to it being there, being inside me, and now it's gone. I know all about the stages of grief...I wonder if I'm in denial."

"I'm not sure about that," Leslie shook her head. "You're pretty self-aware...I think the body will figure out when it's time for you to cope with that. You've been through a tremendous deal of trauma, and it's quite enough for now that you came out of it alive."

"Alive, huh?" Annabeth looked skeptical. "After last night, I'm beginning to wonder if I am. Because this feels like hell to me."

* * *

Not too far off, Bruce and Maya certainly felt like they were descending into hell.

Technically, Safe Haven was still considered a crime scene, but only Montoya and Bullock were there, wrapping up their investigation, and they were willing to let them in.

"We didn't clean anything up," Montoya said apologetically to Maya. "I'm afraid that's not where our primary focus was."

"It's fine," Bruce reassured her. "You've got more important things to do, right?" He winked at her, but Montoya's only response was to turn away and roll her eyes at Bullock, who chuckled and grinned unsympathetically. He was a solid, honest partner, and knew Montoya could hold her own-which was exactly why he treated her like one of the guys. In fact, he took a wicked amusement from her utter indifference to the male sex; poor Bruce Wayne was barking up the wrong tree, there.

Maya was oblivious to this entire exchange. She seemed unaware of everything except the wreckage of her workplace. As they made their way through the building, she mentally made notes: an overturned chair here, a shattered vase there. A pile of ratty Barbie dolls lay abandoned in one of the bedrooms; Maya knew exactly which little girl it was who had been snatched away from her innocent play and thrust into to the world of adult intrigue and games. Briefly she wondered where the girl and her mother were—where had she managed to place them? Christ, why couldn't she remember? It has only been twelve hours ago, perhaps even less. She rubbed her eyes, and then wearily stumbled.

"Careful," Bruce warned her as he caught her elbow. He studied her for a moment. "When did you last sleep?"

"When did you?" Maya shot back.

Bullock and Montoya had followed them, and as they approached the playroom, Bullock finally spoke up. "I'm thinking you guys might not want to hang out in there."

No one felt the need to state the obvious: this would be the most trashed room in the building, and no doubt the blood of more than one person now stained the floor. Bruce and Maya glanced at each other and saw mirror images of grim resolve. Maya spoke for both of them. "We're going in."

The two investigators didn't object; they knew better than that. So they stood aside and let them pass into the room.

In the light of day, from the comfort of being on the safe side of the situation, it was strange to view the room in which so much had gone so wrong, in which such terrible events had unfolded so recently. Now the room was silent, and it was difficult for someone to imagine that the screams and cries of terrified hostages that had shattered the peace. Bruce and Maya had both been there, but of course, no one knew that this was not Bruce's first time seeing the room so defiled.

He schooled his expression into a look of shock. "I can't believe what they did here."

Maya took in the overturned furniture, the scattered, broken toys, the shattered window. "I saw it...I saw all of it, and I still can't believe they did this to us." She slowly made her way over to where Annabeth had been shot, and forced herself to look at the blood. And then she turned and looked at the other place, close by, where Donna had died.

"We can call in a company," Bruce assured her. "There are companies around the city that go in after a violent crime, or an accident, and clean things up. I'll have someone at the Foundation do it as soon as we leave. Or maybe the police guys can suggest someone."

"Gals."

"Pardon?"

"Police _gals _and guys," Maya reminded him. "Donna's dead for less than a day and you already forget everything she's tried to teach you?"

Bruce shrugged. "I'm a slow learner sometimes." He knelt down and began gathering up some of the broken toys. "Besides, I listened more to Annabeth."

"I bet you did." Maya knelt down beside Bruce. "Hey...I'm really so sorry about...everything. I can't help but thinking that I should have stopped this from happening...that if I hadn't been fooled by those assholes and let them in-"

Bruce wouldn't let her get any farther. "Maya, just...be quiet. It's too soon to know what the hell happened, but I will bet _anything _that it's not your fault. You're the last person to blame...you're a victim."

"Victim," Maya snorted. "I hate that word. And jesus, there's one hell of a lot of victims in this. The count just keeps on rising."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't tell you earlier...I didn't want to set you off. I know you and Mayor Garcia aren't exactly BFF."

Bruce went still. "What about Garcia?"

"He's trying to cancel the Take Back the Night Rally. Says that it's a no-go, since Donna was going to be the keynote speaker, and now Safe Haven's in the doghouse. I got the call from his secretary on the way over here."

The transformation was remarkable: one moment, Bruce was the affable, bumbling billionaire whose girlfriend had just been shot up; the next he was a stranger, radiating determination and even a little bit of rage. Maya had no way of knowing that her words had just thrown to Bruce the lifeline that he needed: she had unintentionally provided Bruce with his next adversary. Something he could take on, face down, defeat. A call to action.

"That son of a bitch," he hissed. The next instant, he was scrambling to his feet. "We've got to leave."

"Leave?" Maya echoed. "We just got here. I have a ton of shit to do to get this place cleaned up-"

"_Maya." _This was not the Bruce Wayne that she had come to know over the last few months; this was an angry young man who was looking to raise some hell. "That asshole did everything he could to bully, patronize, belittle, and undermine everything that Donna and Annabeth did, and everything they stood for. Donna's _dead, _and he's still doing it. The only time he ever stops is when someone smarter or more powerful flexes their muscles."

Without realizing it, Bruce had been raising his voice, and it had grown loud enough that both Montoya and Bullock abandoned their tactful distance and peeped into the room to see what the commotion was. Maya remained on the floor, gaping up at him in undisguised surprise.

"Trust me, Maya, that man is scum of the highest order. We can't roll over on this—Annabeth fought hard to make the rally happen, and Garcia trying to cancel it is like him spitting in her face. In the face of every female in Gotham—not just the ones I date." He leaned over, took her by the elbow, and half-hauled, half-helped her up. "We've got to get down to City Hall _now."_

"We?"

"Yes, _we," _Bruce snapped impatiently. "You're just about the only person left in charge—the only one that can speak for Safe Haven right now, you know that."

As he hustled her out of the room and past Bullock and Montoya, Maya cast one woeful look back at the playroom. _Another problem for another time._

Bullock and Montoya gazed after them. "That man really loves women," Bullock remarked.

"Shut it, Bullock."

* * *

In scarcely any time at all, Bruce had hustled Maya out of Safe Haven and back onto the sidewalk, where his latest Lamborghini was parked. He ignored the three neighborhood kids gawking at it, and hustled Maya into the car. "Come on. After City Hall, we need to get on the horn with the other agencies about all that's left to be done. And then we need to figure out how soon Safe Haven can re-open."

" You sure _I'm _the only one left in charge?" Maya remarked.

Bruce didn't even seem to hear her. He turned the car on, revved the engine loudly. "And call the hospital, to see how Annabeth is doing."

As she dialed, she wearily remarked, "How long before we can stop putting out all these damned fires?"

"How long will it take for the whole city to burn?" was Bruce's bitter reply.

Although Bruce wanted—_needed, _if he wanted to be honest—a clear and defined enemy, he did not find it at City Hall. Nor did he find a battle needing to be fought. As soon as Mayor Garcia's assistant came to him with the news that the de facto director of Safe Haven, along with her unexpected champion Bruce Wayne, were in the lobby, demanding an immediate audience, the fight very prudently went out of the Mayor.

"Send them in, Jilly," Mayor Garcia sighed with put-upon weariness. "Tell them I can meet with them for a few minutes. But no more than that—I'm sure there's something more important for me to be doing than messing around with these do-gooders."

The assistant Jilly, whose name was, in fact, Lilly, gave him an impassive look before she turned and headed back out to the lobby. She was painfully aware of his eyes fixed appreciatively on her legs, and made a mental note to wear only slacks from then on out. Only in Gotham could an elected public official get away with being such a creep.

"The Mayor can see you now," she sighed as Bruce and Maya looked her expectantly. "Just don't take too long, or he'll blame me."

Other than her phone conversation with him earlier, Maya had had no interactions with the Mayor, and both Donna and Annabeth had tried to protect her and keep her in the dark about their distaste of him. She glanced curiously at Bruce as she took in the assistant's strangely unprofessional attitude, but Bruce seemed—equally strangely—unsurprised. Or perhaps he just was just too exhausted. No, he was shrugging wearily as they headed in. "You'll see."

And so she did see. As they entered the room, the Mayor rose from his desk and gave Bruce a hearty handshake; Maya had to make do with accepting an indifferent nod. Bruce saw it right away, gritted his teeth, and launched the opening salvo.

"Mayor Garcia," Bruce said without preamble, "Have you met Maya Franklin, the Intermediate Director of Safe Haven?"

Beside him, Maya had the presence of mind to hide her surprise.

Mayor Garcia had no such compunctions. "Miss Franklin...I had no idea...when we spoke on the phone, you made no such indication..."

"It wasn't yet confirmed," Maya said, and her voice contained a degree of coolness which belied her spinning mind. _What the hell was Bruce doing? _Donna and Annabeth had always spoken of him as a loose cannon. She silently prayed he had neither a lit fuse nor bad aim.

"Please, have a seat," the Mayor said. Almost reluctantly, it seemed, he included Maya in this invitation.

"Thanks all the same, but we'll stand," Bruce said. "We're terribly important and busy and don't have the time to linger."

Both Maya and the Mayor stared at him, but he gave no indication that he was joking. In fact, his next words were barely on the safe side of civil, and his tone certainly wasn't. "Garcia, the Interim Director is still very new to her job, so can be forgiven if she misinterpreted your conversation with her earlier. Are we to understand that you're trying to cancel the rally?"

It was brilliantly worded, Maya had to give him that. Bruce gave the Mayor an escape route—gave him the opportunity to deny what he had clearly told her less than two hours before. It made her look like a fool, of course, but better that than making an outright enemy of the Mayor _and _having to call off of the rally.

The Mayor, clearly, was on the same wavelength. He glanced over at Maya, and then back at Bruce, and then his eyes slid away from both of them. He bit his lip in thought, and then spoke. "It's unfortunate Ms. Franklin here interpreted my words that way. _Of course, _I don't want to cancel the rally. Now more than ever, we need to take a stand against the violence our women face. I was merely offering Ms. Franklin an understanding way out, should she find she's not equal to the task."

_Like hell. _His exact words had been "Give it up now or look like a fool when I cancel it for you." Still, Maya kept her mouth shut and simply glared fiercely at the Mayor.

Bruce nodded. "I thought as much. And just so there is no question, let's just specifically clarify—the Take Back the Night Rally is scheduled for the 27th, with no cancellation or interference from City Hall?"

"Of course," Mayor Garcia said simply. And then, almost as an afterthought, "but what about the keynote speaker?"

"Pardon?" Bruce actually looked taken off guard for a moment, but Maya realized instantly what the Mayor was referring to. _Shit._

"Donna Drake was going to be the keynote speaker," the Mayor pointed out with exaggerated patience. "But as it turns out, she's a little bit dead. So who do you propose to speak in her place, and to lead the rally? It's a little pointless, otherwise, don't you think?"

If the Mayor had thought this was his trump card, he was immediately disabused of the notion. Bruce didn't miss a beat.

"It's all taken care of," he assured the Mayor. Again, Maya kept quiet, but the Mayor didn't miss the questioning look she shot in Bruce's direction.

"Interesting," the Mayor said thoughtfully. "Dare I ask who?"

"You may." Bruce's smile was innocent. "But you don't need to. It's me. I'll be the speaker."

A moment of stunned silence followed, and then the Mayor burst into laughter. Both Bruce and Maya stared at him; Bruce looked as though he weren't surprised by the reaction, but Maya's eyes were beginning to blaze with an anger not unlike that of Annabeth's gaze.

"Ah, haha, sorry...heh...please forgive me, Wayne," Garcia said, still chuckling, "but you never struck me as a type particularly adept at public speaking. I don't think you're really man enough...or should I say _woman_ enough...for the job."

Maya had heard enough. She rose from her seat, and while her face was pale with rage, her smile was honey-sweet, which made her following words all the more difficult to comprehend.

"Mayor Garcia," Maya said sweetly, "If we wanted your opinion, I'd take my dick out of your mouth and ask you for it."

"You said _what?"_

Janey gazed at Maya with an expression which was equal parts awe and disbelief. She wasn't the only one, either—Alfred was trying, and failing, to hide his expression of appalled amusement, and Bruce looked as though he still didn't know quite what to make of it.

"I said, 'if I wanted your opinion, I'd take my dick out of your mouth and ask you for it.'" Maya had the grace to look a little bit sheepish. "I've got to say, I certainly didn't go in there planning to say it. I just got so fed up with him and his condescending attitude. Prick."

Alfred couldn't resist the temptation to venture into the complexities of the issue. "Should I even attempt to point out how anatomically inaccurate your retort was?"

"I suspect this was less about accuracy, and more about shock value," Bruce sighed. "While I'm not sure I'm on board with the statement, it had the desired result of leaving the Mayor speechless. We were able to leave pretty quickly after that."

The four of them were clustered in the ICU waiting room, holding an impromptu meeting. Alfred had been sitting there when Bruce and Maya returned from their adventure to City Hall, and Janey had turned up a few minutes later. Now, having grown tired of contemplating Maya's sudden sassiness, Bruce turned his attention back to more personal matters.

"How's Annabeth?"

The loaded look which Janey and Alfred exchanged did nothing to reassure Bruce. He repeated the question, putting a little more command into his words. "How is she?"

"Dr. Thompkins is in with her right now," Janey said. "She's been really great. She pisses off Dr. Andrews, who's an insensitive, territorial little Nazi—he doesn't like the fact that Dr. Thompkins showed up and started advocating for Annabeth..." she drifted off as she saw Bruce's impatience. He had been asking about Annabeth, not hospital politics, and her attempt to distract him had not worked. "Physically, she's doing really well. They're pumping her full of antibiotics to ward off infection. She's in some pain, but other than that—she's getting along remarkably well."

"You said 'physically'," Bruce pointed out. "So what about otherwise?"

Again, Janey and Alfred shared a glance, and this time, Alfred spoke. Both Maya and Janey had the impression that he chose his words with the greatest of care. "I think, Master Wayne, she is perhaps unhappy...at present. Her way of dealing with sorrow has always been to immerse herself in work...and that's not an option right now. So she broods."

For a moment after that, they stood there silently, a cluster of troubled people, each one struggling to comprehend the enormity of the problems that had been assaulting them since the attack on Safe Haven. They were each of them exhausted and worried; in the case of both Bruce and Maya, they were both holding grief at bay by nothing more than sheer force of will and the knowledge that there was still more work to do. But in that moment, they were all, more or less, dangerously close to giving up.

But in the next moment, Dr. Andrews—the insensitive, territorial little Nazi himself—turned up. No doubt some political animal of a nurse had alerted him that the Annabeth faction was gathering, and so he bustled his way in before they could form too much of a mutiny.

"Good to see you all," he said as he approached them. "It's so nice to see how Miss de Burgh has such supportive...friends." Here he glanced at Bruce Wayne, as though he were attempting to gauge just how "friendly" Bruce and his patient were. "It's very important for our patients to have a strong support network around them."

Janey happened to glance over at Bruce in that moment, and noted two things—one, that his face had gone pale with rage, and two, that his hands were clenching into fists. _Not good. _But before she could do anything to intervene, Dr. Andrews had already sailed off, satisfied that he had done his duty. What that duty was, no one but him knew.

"Don't pay him any mind," chimed in another voice, and they turned to take in Dr. Leslie Thompkins standing behind them.

"Leslie!" Bruce's voice reflected both a warmth and a familiarity that neither Maya nor Janey had witnessed before. "Once more, you came through."

"For you, Bruce, always." She smiled at him, and then turned to the others. "I'm afraid dear Dr. Andrews hasn't taken too kindly to me becoming Annabeth's primary physician—"

"How is she?" Bruce interrupted.

"She's going to pull through just fine." Leslie Thompkins was one of the few people who was neither disconcerted by, or in awe of Bruce, and it showed. "Right now, I have to be honest—I'm more worried about you. _All _of you," she added, glancing around at them all. "I've been keeping up with the news, and I can guess how hard you've all been working."

They didn't bother to protest, because they each knew it to be true—Bruce and Maya had been running around almost non-stop, trying to do damage control; Janey had been preoccupied with Annabeth's health and hospital politics, and Alfred, unsurprisingly had been attempting to provide physical and moral support for them all. "You all—go home right now. I mean it," she added as she saw Bruce start to protest. "You're all exhausted. I'm still fresh and new to the situation, I can stay here a good long while. But you all—you need to go home. Rest. Shower, eat. I don't want to see you around here until tomorrow night."

Nothing was more of a testimony to their stress than the collective blank look that they gave her. Bruce was the one that finally voiced the question that was on their mind.

"What's tomorrow night?"

Leslie glanced around the ICU waiting room and took in the decorations, the fake tree, the feebly blinking lights before she answered Bruce. When she did, her voice was even more kind than it was normally.

"Christmas Eve."


	49. Chapter 49

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man holding a certain amount of power within a workplace must be in want of more power. This truth is so well fixed in his mind, that he will consider as his rightful property the power of some one or other of his colleagues. Moreover, he will jealously guard his own power with such zeal that it is inevitable that he will encounter attempts, real or imagined, of said colleagues trying to rob him of his power and reduce his status.

Dr. Andrews was, of course, no exception to this universal truth. If anything, he was the poster child _of _this truth. He was a talented surgeon, certainly, but also was in possession of more than the usual amount of arrogance, and also more than the usual amount of ambition. His eye was on the much-coveted position of Chief of Surgery, and it was a goal he intended to achieve sooner rather than later in his career. He had wined, dined, and charmed the right doctors, donors, and board members; he had encountered an unusually low number of medical malpractice suits in the course of his career; and he usually managed to temper his arrogance with the requisite amount of competence. All of his efforts had resulted in a career which had followed a fast, upwards trajectory, and which had, up until now, seemed assured.

And over the course of the past few days, the results of all of his careful work and cultivation had begun to crumble around him.

It had started with Annabeth de Burgh coming into his surgery. He saved her life; didn't that count for anything? Not only that, but she was speeding along in the healing process at a remarkable pace. Bullet wounds in the abdomen were notoriously tricky things, and through his own skill—as well as the antibiotics they had been pumping her with—de Burgh had managed to ward off infection and pull through.

But the problem with her was that she was the girlfriend of the richest man in Gotham—perhaps the eastern seaboard—and whatever the media had painted the man out to be, it certainly wasn't the man that Dr. Andrews encountered. He had expected a vacant, pretty-boy sort of man; instead, he quickly realized that Bruce Wayne was observant, serious, and overly-protective of Annabeth.

Wayne had brought in another doctor—according to gossip, an old family friend, a dignified dame who knew her medicine and had an impeccable bedside manner. Dr. Andrews didn't like other doctors horning in on his patch, and so he had sped, hot-footed, up the chain of command to protest Leslie Thompkins' involvement.

The powers that be, prudently enough, overrode his objections, no doubt believing that it was more important to be on the good side of Bruce Wayne than it was to be on the good side of Dr. Andrews. And so, for the past couple of days, he had endured—more or less—the presence of Dr. Leslie Thompkins. She was always there, hovering, watching, tweaking, questioning, and generally making Dr. Andrews feel very threatened. It didn't help that he was well aware of the nurses, orderlies, and other doctors witnessing this continuous undermining of his authority.

By the third day of Annabeth's hospital stay, Dr. Andrews had had enough. With each passing hour, his stores of patience and charm depleted more and more; he grew shorter and shorter with Dr. Thompkins, and ever more taciturn towards Annabeth herself. He suspected some of the nurses were taking bets about when he'd blow a fuse. Something had to be done.

He made his first move soon enough. He bustled into Annabeth de Burgh's room on the morning of Christmas Eve, attempting to radiate smiles and good cheer. "Happy holidays, happy holidays!" he blustered.

Three people looked over at him—the nurse taking Annabeth's vital signs, Leslie Thompkins, who sat by Annabeth's bed, and Annabeth herself. She was sitting upright in her bed now, and some color had come back into her cheeks. Still, she had spent most of the past few days lying in bed, largely silent and listless and generally uninterested in anything. In a rare moment of unity, both Dr. Andrews and Leslie had sharply curtailed the visits of her support network; Maya, Janey, Alfred, and Bruce were only allowed brief visits, one at a time. While this had given everyone the chance to rest and refresh themselves—frankly, her friends had started smelling a little ripe—and it had given Annabeth's body a chance for more rest and recuperation, it also furthered the inevitable depression and isolation that she was experiencing.

Now, "happy Christmas," she mumbled indifferently.

"Great news!" Dr. Andrews grinned at them, but none returned the smile. Still, he was undaunted. "I've been reviewing your files, and I think it's safe for us to move you out of ICU, down to the Trauma Medical Unit."'

This was his latest strategy—redirection. Remove the obstacle and place it elsewhere. He had given it much thought, and had decided any sort of outright confrontation was pointless. This way, de Burgh would be out of his hair and in someone else's, and his career was safe. _Brilliant._

But for some strange reason, Dr. Leslie Thompkins did not see it in the same light. "Oh dear, Dr. Andrews—I didn't realize. Is there a shortage of beds here in the ICU?"

_Shit._

The nurse who had been tending to Annabeth had heard this entire exchange, and wisely decided to make a discreet withdrawal. She excused herself and slipped from the room, but the only indication that Dr. Andrews noticed was that he waited until the nurse left before he answered Leslie.

"It's not that at all, Dr. Thompkins," he said, doing his best to keep a pleasant tone of voice. "It's that down in Trauma, they're far better equipped to assist Annabeth through this phase of her recovery."

On the surface, his argument was sound. Still, Leslie knew that they were a thorn in his side, and that his primary objective was to be rid of them as soon as possible. She didn't like the fact that he was placing that goal above Annabeth's recovery—she didn't like it, not one bit.

The two doctors stared each other down in a mute struggle for power; Dr. Andrews with a barely-disguised air of anticipation; Leslie with exasperation. And then Leslie remembered Annabeth, still laying there, listening and observing. Looking animated, in fact, moreso than she had done for days. And that was what decided it for Leslie.

"Have it your way, Dr. Andrews," Leslie said. "I want Annabeth's records to reflect that you're authorizing this against my advice." She looked at Annabeth again, and noticed that even more color had flooded into her face. "Are you comfortable with this, Annabeth?"

Her answer took Leslie by surprise. "Will Bruce be able to stay with me longer?"

Dr. Andrews didn't wait for Leslie to respond. "Absolutely...he'll be able to stay as long as you both want. That's one of the benefits of moving you—the Trauma unit is geared more towards rehabilitation, and they're better equipped to deal with the needs of patients who are no longer critical. And really, Annabeth—what it boils down to is that your rate of recovery has been remarkable. That you're alive at all is a miracle, and now that you're recovering, we need to place you where they're equipped to help you along. Up here, we're all about the initial stages, keeping you alive. We've done that, and now it's time to send you on." He flashed her a freshly-minted smile. "So, this is the best Christmas gift we could give you."

For the first time, Annabeth seemed to rouse herself out of her torpor. "The best Christmas gift you could give me, you clueless motherfucker, is my baby. Seeing as how you dropped the ball on that one, I'll settle for you getting the hell out of my face." The effort it took to spew this vitriol apparently drained her, for she fell back against her bank of pillows, breathing heavily.

All pretense at amiability abandoned Dr. Andrews. "I'll start the paperwork, and they'll be in to do the transfer in a couple of hours," he told Leslie. To Annabeth, he said nothing else at all—perhaps wisely, for she was currently in the grip of a cold, helpless rage.

After Dr. Andrews left the room, Leslie closed the door behind him and turned to Annabeth. "Getting angry isn't going to help, my dear," she said, kindly but firmly. "You've got a long recovery ahead of you; negative emotions will only make things worse. Might even make you feel more physical pain."

"It's not the physical pain that bothers me at all." Annabeth's face was frozen into a mask of desolation. "It's everything..._god_. Why's it all so fucked up, Leslie? Why?"

Even with all the wisdom and compassion Leslie Thompkins possessed, even with as much of the world as she had traveled, and all of the human nature she had witnessed, even with all of her years of medical experience, even with all of this, she had no way of answering Annabeth or providing the medicine to heal her broken spirit. She could only sit there and hold Annabeth's hand as, once more, weary defeat overtook her once more.

The wheels of officialdom moved with surprising speed, and Leslie and Annabeth had little to do but sit back and observe as nurses and orderlies began to troop in and out of the room, packing up the few belongings that Janey had brought from Annabeth's home, checking and double-checking her charts, losing and finding and re-losing her charts, altering her charts, arguing quietly amongst themselves _about _her charts. The entire time, Leslie continued to sit by Annabeth and watch the proceedings with an eagle eye. Two nurses had just come in to take Annabeth's vitals and study her charts—again—when into this controlled chaos, Bruce and Alfred waded, their expressions of surprise comically, and unknowingly, identical. But while Alfred wisely kept quiet, Bruce's reaction was a little more earthy.

"What the hell's going on here?"

Leslie had made a wise decision in limiting the amount of time he could spend with Annabeth. While it meant that he spent far more time working with Maya to restore Safe Haven, it also meant, inevitably, that he spent at least a little more time resting. The shadows of fatigue no longer lurked under his eyes, and he was once more fully energetic, aware, and ready to take on Gotham. Or at least hospital bureaucracy.

It was Annabeth who spoke up. "They're moving me, Bruce. Said I was recovered enough to come out of ICU." She managed a weak smile, but it was replaced with confusion as Bruce abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Alfred tried to fill the gap that Bruce had left. "That's wonderful news, Miss Annabeth. I know we'll all be much happier once you're out of the hospital entirely-" he was abruptly cut off as a bellowing voice resounded through the room. It was coming from down the corridor...and it sounded suspiciously like Bruce Wayne—if Bruce had decided to take steroids and decided to go on a murderous rampage.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, MOVING HER? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE PLAYING AT?"

The two nurses glanced at each other, and then over at Leslie, who sighed. "Excuse me, Alfred, Annabeth." She rose and quickly exited the room, both nurses trailing in her wake.

"-SHE NEARLY DIED, SHE LOST HER CHILD, AND SHE SHOULD BE HERE FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER WEEK. I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL SEE YOU GO DOWN FOR THIS-"

Bruce's tirade abruptly ended as, presumably, Leslie and the nurses arrived on the scene and intervened. In the room, Annabeth looked askance at Alfred. "Was he acting?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Alfred admitted. "I know he's trying hard to maintain the loose cannon public persona...but at the same time, his emotions are running high."

"Emotions?" Annabeth looked as surprised as her current energy and pain levels would allow. "Haven't really seen the emotions before now, I have to say."

"You know as well as I do, Miss Annabeth, Master Bruce doesn't exactly do well with showing them. He's trying to be strong for everyone...for you."

The compassion in Alfred's eyes was almost more than Annabeth could bear. She knew what he was going to say next.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Annabeth. For everything. And we're going to help you in every way we can...but sometimes the best help is just listening. So if you want to talk, know that I will be here. I listen _very _well."

"Thanks, Alfred...but I can't talk about it now. It's still too fresh, too goddamned sick and cruel for me to talk about it. When I think about it, I just feel like something's twisting up inside of me, killing whatever hopeful, human part of me survived all these years in this horrible place. I'm beginning to wonder if Gotham's trying to destroy me. I'm in pain, I'm having nightmares when I sleep, I'm lonely as hell and lost when I'm awake...I can't stop thinking about everything."

"Everything?" Alfred prompted softly.

"_Everything. _My parents, abandoning me. My...what happened to me in college. The lies that Donna fed me, year after year, and the trust I had in her. The infertility, the work in the Narrows, all of the love and effort I put into Safe Haven...take, take, take, that's all Gotham's ever done to me. It just won't stop taking. And I lost my baby—no, this fucking city _took _my baby, and I swear, it feels like a goddamned sacrifice on the altar of this hellhole."

"Gotham may always be taking, my dear...but I'll tell you the same thing I would tell Master Wayne: perhaps it's time that you stop putting yourself in a position to keep on giving." Alfred paused to let his words sink in, and then after a moment, continued. "I'm no psychologist, but it's clear to me...Your mother and father failed you, and since then you've always been too ready to give, in order to get some sort of sense of acceptance or belonging. My dear child, I never had a daughter...but if I did, I know I'd be a very lucky, honored father if she had turned out like you. Perhaps all that there is left for you to do is simply pity your parents for having lost the opportunity to raise such a woman as you."

A few minutes later, a highly-annoyed Leslie and a somewhat-chastened Bruce came back into the room, to see Alfred sitting in the chair Leslie had so recently vacated. Beside him, Annabeth was lying back in bed, her eyes closed again. She missed the meaningful look that Alfred gave Bruce, and the dutiful way in which Bruce bowed his head. But she was aware of Alfred's older presence rising from the seat and retreating, and Bruce's younger, more solid presence as he sat down by her. And she was aware of his hands as he slowly, almost fearfully, stroked her cheek one single time, and then quietly withdrew it.

* * *

Not long after that, they transferred Annabeth to the Trauma unit. They had doped her up for the transition, but as the orderlies began to wheel her bed out of the room, she was still awake enough to sense Bruce walking alongside her, and Alfred and Leslie following closely behind. She was aware of the Christmas lights in the hall, already beginning to swim and blur lazily in her line of vision as the drugs slowly took effect. And she was aware of several nurses, all of whom paused in their routines and tasks and stood straight and proud and as the little procession passed by. It was a tiny gesture of solidarity, a gesture of appreciation, and a gesture of love towards the fierce woman who had passed through their unit, and who nearly hadn't made it out of there alive.

As she slowly slipped into the netherworld induced by the deliciously strong sedatives, Annabeth's last clear memory was of Bruce, gazing down at her with the closest thing to tenderness that he could manage. What was it that Alfred had said? Emotions... "_Master Bruce does not exactly do well at showing them."_

And then she was out. But even after she was under, Bruce continued to look at her, taking in her tiny form and the haunted expression that hung over her even when asleep. So intent was he on watching over Annabeth that he was completely unaware of Dr. Andrews, still pale with rage and indignation, lurking in the background and stewing in a pot of freshly-brewed hatred.

* * *

Elsewhere in the city, others were celebrating the Christmas holidays with slightly more glee.

Trinity, in particular, was feeling rather happy. Incredibly, she had opted not to post bail, and instead remained in the city's jail, kicking up her heels and socializing with some of the less hard-core female criminals. The conditions were not uncomfortable, and as far as she was concerned, she was a damned sight safer in the jail than at home. God only knew what violence Donzetti and le Blanc would try to engineer, even from where they were stashed away, in the county lock-up.

So for the time being, she remained uncomplainingly in custody. She had spoken with Gordon more times than she could count; with her defense attorney a fair number of times, even some Feds. From what she could gather, the DA was quite disinclined to press charges against her—and no doubt the information she had gathered would be quite useful in engineering some sort of plea bargain. Whatever. A little time in jail would be worth it for trying to kill that goon, on the night of the raid. She had enjoyed many things in her life, but that took the cake. So for now, in the city jail she stayed.

The main issue, as far as Trinity could see, was the boredom. Jail simply didn't offer many diversions. And so she spent plenty of time, quietly lost in thought—thinking about her lovely home, and wondering when she could live there, safely, again; thinking of her mother in West Virginia, thinking of Annabeth and the terrible price she had paid. Commissioner Gordon had told her about Annabeth's miscarriage, and Trinity couldn't help but to feel guilty. She had had no way of knowing that Annabeth had been pregnant, but still...

A woman's drunken, off-key singing filled the corridor beyond her cell, and Trinity's attention was diverted from her melancholic ruminations as a police officer led the newest inmate past. Although the words were rather garbled, it appeared that the woman was attempting to belt out "Good King Wenceslas." Obnoxious as hell, but it also gave Trinity some badly-needed inspiration.

Fifteen minutes later, word had spread through the jail like wildfire. Several officers trickled into the holding area, listening in amazement, and then, finally, joining in as the strikingly beautiful woman who had dared defy the Arrows now led her co-inmates in a surprisingly melodic number of Christmas carols.

* * *

Out in the suburbs, Maya was completely indifferent to the holiday. That morning, her long-suffering fiance Rush forced her to remain in bed, and it really took very little forcing. Maya spent the entire day in bed, slumbering, only waking to take a phone call from her parents, or rising to go to the bathroom. Late in the day, she finally awoke and hoisted herself upright. Rush was instantly there, propping her against a bank of pillows and offering to make her tea.

"You're a gem," she told him gratefully, but wasn't able to say anything else—a yawn nearly cracked her face open.

"Merry Christmas," Rush smiled ruefully. "I ordered in some Chinese. Should be here soon."

She smiled her gratitude, but said nothing else. He sat down on the bed beside her, and gently stroked her tangled hair away from her face. "Looks like you got some rest."

"I probably have some energy now for something else." Maya's words were as coy as her tone and her smile both teasing and inviting as she reached for Rush, who certainly wasn't protesting.

Afterward, as they lay in the tangled, slightly-sweaty sheets, they talked seriously, for the first time in days.

"I don't know what's going to happen," Maya admitted. "It's all chaos right now. We've got the women placed in different homes, and a cleaning crew has come and gone. I think all we're waiting for now is for the cops to finish gathering the evidence. The problem is..."

"The problem is the manpower," Rush finished for her. "Your boss is dead, and Annabeth won't be back in for a while. So who can run the show? There's you—essentially an extremely competent secretary and administrative assistant, I grant you, but only one person—and Bruce Wayne. He's actually quite a stand-up guy, from what you've said, but he's just a wealthy man involved in philanthropy. You two aren't exactly skilled in managing a non-profit community organization."

He was right, of course. Rush had a way of assessing a situation accurately and efficiently, and he didn't spare anyone, not even his future wife, from the truth as he saw it. It was both useful—and humbling.

"I know." Maya closed her eyes and allowed herself to luxuriate in the warmth of his arms. "But until someone tells me to throw in the towel, I'm going to keep on keeping on."

"No wonder Donna hired you," Rush said admiringly.

* * *

Down in the Naval Tricorner Yards, Jim Gordon and Barbara Jr. had just managed to get the two children to bed. In a fit of seasonal generosity, they had allowed the kids more Christmas cookies and fudge than was advisable, and the resultant sugar high had been an extremely stressful thing to behold. After several hours of shrill laughter, too much indoor rough-housing, and more than one squabble, however, they got their reward—both children were fast asleep and tucked into bed by 7 PM.

"I don't know which is more of a miracle," Jim commented to his eldest daughter as they wearily tread down the stairs, "that we got them to bed, or that I don't have to work tonight."

Barbara, like most true Gothamites, had a very dim view of religion and miracles. "I wouldn't call it a miracle by any stretch—but it's certainly luck. Put your feet up and I'll make us some 'nogg."

He made no protest to this pleasant offer, and a few minutes later, when Barbara emerged into the living room with a tray bearing a pitcher of the promised beverage and a couple of glasses, she saw that he had built up a fire and dimmed the lights. "Way to inspire the holiday spirit, Pops." She set down the tray and poured him a glass. "Here...bottoms up."

The egg nogg was pleasant and smoothed Jim's tangled thoughts, at least for a moment. All in all—if one could get past the fact that his soon-to-be-ex-wife was whiling away her time in rehab—it was a fairly decent Christmas holiday. He was spending time with his children, and he had not been called into work. "I'll give this to the Batman," Jim said to his daughter, "at least he had the good sense to wrap all of this up before Christmas."

"Hmmm." Barbara settled down beside the hearth and enjoyed the toastiness of it. "Maybe he had some big plans or something."

Father and daughter both actually laughed at this thought.

"Something tells me that's fairly unlikely,"Jim said. "I haven't a clue who the man is, but something tells me he's probably not partying it up tonight."

"Wherever he is," Barbara said softly, "No, _whoever _he is, I hope he's safe and happy."

Both of them knew, although didn't voice, how unlikely this possibility was.

* * *

In some ways, Annabeth's new home down in the Trauma ward was not nearly impressive. Back in the ICU, hers had been a private room—small, of course, with only the one bed, but quiet, out of the way of foot traffic. Her new room was much larger, a shared room, and close to a busy corridor. Thankfully, the other bed was empty, but the mere absence of a roommate simply served as a silent threat of the possibility of a wretched addition.

Still, even with the noise and the lack of privacy, Bruce soon began to notice that moving Annabeth down to the Trauma Ward was making a difference. She emerged from her sedated sleep more quickly, she became more rapidly alert, and when the nurse brought in the evening meal, she ate more of it than she had done in the past. Although...

"It freaks me out, how intently you're looking at me eat," she told Bruce quietly as she paused to transition from her soup to her salad. "A girl doesn't like to have her eating habits scrutinized."

"If I didn't scrutinize, would you eat at all?" Bruce challenged, even as he began to butter her roll. "You want to get out of here, the best way to do it is eat, and rest, and get your strength back."

"What's the point?" Annabeth said. She abruptly put down her fork. "I get out of here, what then? What do I go back to?"

There was an unaccustomed note of self-pity in her voice, and while Bruce certainly couldn't blame her, he knew enough about it to know that indulging her wouldn't help matters. "Whatever you choose to return to."

The conversation had taken an unexpectedly serious turn, and Bruce didn't have any idea where it would lead. Moreover, he was not at all certain Annabeth was up to it. He passed her the roll. "Here, eat this. And don't worry about all the other stuff—there's plenty of time to think about it."

Annabeth had not become the woman she was by being protected and mollycoddled. It wasn't something she was used to, and she didn't want to become used to it. "You don't have to protect me from whatever's going to happen next, or from talking about it. We'll have to talk about it eventually; it's inevitable. So is pain."

Instead of answering, Bruce rose from his seat and walked away from her bed, giving himself a chance to collect his thoughts. As he walked around the room, he noticed a window tucked away in an awkward corner. Here, too, was another improvement over the previous room—the window in Annabeth's ICU room had been absolutely tiny, and blocked by various machines and rolling carts. The window in this room was enormous in comparison, and as he drew back the curtain, he saw that there was actually a beautiful view of the city and the twinkling lights.

And then he saw something small and white drift past the window. It was snowing again. He saw then some of the city lights reflecting against a leaden grey sky—no doubt it would be a white Christmas.

He turned back to Annabeth, who was watching him, her eyes huge and dark in her white face. "You're only partly right—we _will _need to talk about it at some point...but I _do _need to protect you. It's painful for both of us, and I want to keep as much of the pain from you as I can, as long as I can. It's about the only thing I _can _protect you from. I couldn't protect you from anything else—so let me do this."

For a moment, Annabeth was silent, and Bruce wondered if perhaps he had somehow deeply offended her. But then she nodded, once, briefly, but firmly. And then, amazingly, she ventured with a soft statement that he hadn't been expecting. "You saved us—most of us, anyway. We owe you an incredible debt...I don't blame you, not at all."

That simple statement, coming from her when she was racked with so much pain, dealing with a profound sense of betrayal, would have driven a lesser man to no end of grief. As it was, Bruce found himself temporarily driven to a bluntness he did not often allow himself.

"You may not blame me," he said, "but I do."

* * *

Far removed—in spirit if not physical proximity—from the residential and wannabe suburbs of Gotham, the Central Business District was almost a graveyard on Christmas Eve. The stockbrokers, the advertising and PR execs, the real estate moguls, the power brokers and movers and shakers, all of them had boarded up shop early (if they even bothered to come in at all) and returned to their homes or their revelries.

Only a couple of buildings still showed signs of life; one being the local news network, the other being the headquarters of _Gotham Gazette. _Even there, at the main news publication of the city, they weren't exactly humming with life. Everyone who could beg off of work had done so, leaving a bare-bones crew of people: a couple of pimply-faced interns from Gotham University (one Jewish, the other Ba'hai), one senior reporter (not Jewish or Ba'hai, but going through a painful divorce), a few hard-cores in the printing area...and Vicki Vale.

She was, perhaps surprisingly, one of the youngest reporters—and the last one hired before the reality of the Internet had come crashing down on the newspaper industry a few years prior. That, coupled with the more recent hiring freezes caused by the tanking economy, ensured that she was the reporter with the least seniority, and invariably got stuck with some truly awful holiday shifts. It didn't matter to Vicki, not really—her family was local, so visiting them on Christmas Day would not be a cross-country production. Furthermore, she had a cheerful outlook which invariably jazzed the evening up for everyone else. She actually made a game of it—anyone who uttered the word "Christmas" had to put a dollar in a collection jar; the proceeds would go to a 3 AM run for Chinese food. They all studiously avoided any radio stations that played Christmas carols—this limited them to 99.7— "Gotham's Premiere Death Metal station," and she insisted that it added a unique flavor to the evening.

Still, it felt a little like Purgatory.

To make matters worse, Christmas Eve tended to be a slow news evening. She could stomach working it if something were actually going _on, _but that was rarely the case. The religiously diverse interns were working the police scanners, and absolutely nothing appeared to be going down. Tragically, Vicki was finding the most entertainment she'd had all evening in a game of Computer Solitaire.

"Vale!"

The grumpy divorcee pulled Vicki from her concentration. "Security called—said that someone's here to see you."

"I wasn't expecting anyone," Vicki said, a little lamely. "Who the hell comes to the newsrooom on Christmas Eve?"

"A Jehovah's Witness, maybe?" The divorcee cracked a smile. "And that's one dollar for the kitty."

"Shit," Vicky said absently. As she excavated a dollar from her wallet, she asked, "Who's this person, anyway?"

"No idea. But he said he was a source." The woman wandered off again, no doubt to dupe money out of the other luckless saps.

Not too long after she left, Vicki saw the newsroom door open, and a tall man come striding in. _No doubt the "source."_ He paused and glanced around the room; as soon as his eyes alighted on Vicki, he made a beeline for her. "Ms. Vale?"

"Just Vale is fine," Vicki said. "You are...?"

"Doctor Andrews." He paused, as though he expected Vicki to know him right away. When she made no noises of recognition, he sighed. "A surgeon at Gotham General."

"I see."

Apparently, Dr. Andrews didn't find her as welcoming as he had expected. He glanced around, and then gestured for the closest empty seat. "May I sit down?"

"Sure."

She watched as he seated himself. Unable to help herself, she took in his features: conventionally handsome, certainly. Very well coiffed, with dimples, an unreadable face—but small eyes. She remained quiet as he watched her expectantly. Finally—more from a desire to get him out of her cubicle than anything else—Vicki prompted him. "What's up, Andrews? What brings you here on Christmas Eve?"

"Another dollar, Vale! Pay up!" This came from the Ba'hai, lurking in the next cubicle.

"Dammit!"

With that dubious encouragement, the doctor began to speak. "I imagine you are aware of...recent violence that took place at one of the city's leading halfway houses?"

"Safe Haven? Seeing as how I wrote the lead article only a couple of days ago, yes." Already Vicki was eying him warily. "What about it?"

"And you're aware that Annabeth de Burgh was badly injured?"

"Again, yes."

"Annabeth de Burgh...current love interest of Bruce Wayne?"

Alarm bells were ringing loudly in Vicki's brain. "Andrews, are you a surgeon or a society columnist?"

"A doctor, I assure you." He leaned forward. "Would it be of any interest to you if I offered a little more information that hasn't hit the public yet?"

The alarm bells were going off still, but Vicki's inner journalist had come to attention. "It would depend on the information."

"What if I were to tell you that Miss Annabeth de Burgh had been carrying a child when she was injured?"

Suddenly his small eyes looked positively beady.

"I'd ask what happened to the child," Vicki said softly.

"And if I were to tell you she lost the child?"

"I'd say it was a sorrow that I couldn't begin to grasp."

"What if I were to tell you the child was Bruce Wayne's?"

Vicki had already seen where this conversation was going, of course, so didn't show any surprise. "I'd say that would be the logical conclusion, given the fact that they've been publicly involved for a while."

This was not the answer that Dr. Andrews had been expecting. "You don't think this is newsworthy information?"

"To a certain class of readers, perhaps, and a certain class of papers." Vicki chose her next words with care. "But I fail to see how a very private tragedy like theirs pertains to the legitimate news."

"You're a gossip columnist!" he blurted in sudden outrage.

"I fill in as a society writer, but I'm also a features writer," Vicki informed him coolly. "I'm paid to write stories that our readers will appreciate and find both informing and entertaining—and I am fairly certain, _Doctor _Andrews, that both my editors and my readers will take a rather dim view on reading an article which came about as a result of a doctor violating patient confidentiality."

She had scored a point, that much she could see in his slightly guilty expression. "Let me guess...Wayne's a bit of a difficult fellow, yes? Calling him a loose cannon pisses off cannons everywhere. So he got a little overprotective of his girlfriend, doled out a little humiliation on you, and you figured this is the way to get him back? Am I right?" She didn't even do him the courtesy of checking to see if she was. "So you figured, pass along a little private information, cite yourself as a protected source...trot along back to your hospital and no one's the wiser? If Wayne gets upset, he'll sue us instead? "Vicki's temper was really beginning to rise, a development even the clueless Dr. Andrews could see. Unfortunately, his temper was rising, too, and it was made worse by the fact that he was completely wrong-footed...and he knew it.

"I beg your pardon, _Vicki," _he said her first name deliberately, "Somehow I wasn't expecting to encounter a muckraking journalist with such a strong moral stance."

"And I wasn't expecting to encounter a doctor with no moral stance whatsoever," Vicki snapped. "Until you can learn an ounce of professional ethics or a shred of common decency, why don't you take your 'story' and fuck the fuck off?"

Fuck the fuck off was exactly what the dejected Dr. Andrews did, but not before the incensed Vicki Vale took a final, parting shot:

"Merry fucking Christmas, you goon! Why don't you harass the Virgin Mary and see if she lost her kid, too? I bet _that _would make a great news story!"

As he slunk out of the newsroom, the grumpy divorcee sauntered her way over to Vicki's cubicle. "What the hell was all that about, Vale?"

Vicki's temper was still running high, but she knew better than to sass one of the many people who ranked higher than her on the food chain. "Honestly? Just some shithead with a personal vendetta that he needs to drop."

"Well, you certainly sent him packing." The senior journalist smiled at Vicki. "And by the sound of it, your better angels prevailed. I'm surprised."

"So'm I," Vicki admitted ruefully. "Hope it doesn't bite me in the ass."

"Probably will. Oh, and that's another dollar." The other woman had already lost interest and was heading off. Vicki made a mental note to call Wayne and give him a heads-up...

But just a few minutes later, one of the pimply lads picked up on a 911 call reporting a holdup at a midnight mass uptown, and into this unanticipated drama, Vicki was immediately swept. And by the time she remembered to give Bruce a call, it was too late.


	50. Chapter 50

The snowstorm that had blown through on Christmas Eve had passed, considerately dumping only a little snow on the ground. Within hours, the snowplows had made their way through the streets, banking the snow up almost onto the sidewalks. The temperature plummeted, however, and the frigid temperatures ensured that the snow didn't melt—only turned a nasty, dingy grey as the hours and then days slipped past.

_Fitting, really, _Bruce thought to himself as he strolled past one such dirty snowbank. _The embodiment of Gotham. Perfect backdrop._

Normally he didn't dally about on the streets too much. He preferred to take one of his cars and maintain a necessarily flashy presence around town. But on the morning of the 27th, he had decided to take a walk and explore the route that the rally would follow: from the gates of Gotham University, a mile and a half through the city, to the front steps of City Hall. He had no reason to believe that anything dangerous or risky would develop, but he had been in the Batman business long enough to prepare for the unexpected. So he walked slowly, keeping an eye out for any potential danger areas, any suspicious lurkers.

So far, nothing. He passed a few dozen cops erecting the barriers to mark off the parade route; a few curious onlookers, and a few more homeless people who were completely oblivious. Other than that—nothing. With any luck, it would remain that way.

At City Hall, the stage, the podium, and the sound system were being erected, all under the watchful eye of the Events Director of the Wayne Foundation. There was a rather large contingent of security officers—privately employed through same said Foundation, of course—swarming the parameter, occasionally speaking with a bemused Commissioner Gordon. Perhaps the security was unnecessary, but again—Bruce wasn't willing to take risks with anyone's life but his own.

Satisfied that all was well and quiet, he turned and headed for the nearest cab queue. It was time to head back to the hospital, and back to Annabeth.

All was not well and quiet at the hospital. Annabeth was in rare form—fretful, moody, and not at all pleasant to be around. Judging by her sharp tongue, she was either feeling much better, or much worse.

"Why the hell do you keep turning up? Don't you have some sort of apocalypse to divert?" she snapped when he appeared in the doorway of her room. She glanced over at Alfred, who was sitting beside her bed, his face arranged in a blandly amiable expression. "For that matter, why the hell do _you _stick around all the time? It's _creepy. _Wherever Bruce is, there you are. Don't you have a life of your own?" Without waiting for either of them to respond, she sank back down into the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling.

Bruce cocked a questioning eye at Alfred, who only shrugged noncommittally and rose. "I'll be back momentarily, Miss Annabeth."

"Whatever."

Alfred quietly rose from his seat and moved to stand by Bruce. "To the corridor, Master Wayne," he murmured.

Out in the corridor, the harsh lights illuminated the tired lines and sleeplessness that were evident on Alfred's kind face. Bruce felt a brief stab of guilt, but forced himself to tamp it down. _One disaster at a time. _"Annabeth seems...feisty."

"She is." Alfred glanced back into the room for a moment. "The nurse came in to take her vitals this morning, and she said that Annabeth had an elevated temperature. They paged Dr. Thompkins about ten minutes ago, and she's on her way. Miss Annabeth's a bit...cranky this morning, and I suspect that she's in pain and not wanting to admit it."

Bruce was already heading back into Annabeth's room, leaving Alfred talking to empty air.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Leslie turned up, bursting with energy and concern. She saw Alfred sitting in the corridor, gave a brief nod and a briefer smile, and headed straight into the room. Bruce was sitting in the chair that Alfred had so recently vacated, and Annabeth was either asleep or studiously ignoring him. Alfred heard Leslie's cheerful voice saying, "What's this, then?" as the door shut behind her.

All around him, the hospital bustled; nurses and orderlies and interns and doctors intent on their work, family members distracted by their concerns for the patients in various states of living or dying. And Alfred paid them no attention to them at all. His mind was in several places at once: with Annabeth and Bruce and Leslie in the hospital room; with the impending rally, with Gotham and all her obligations and concerns. It never once occurred to him that he had taken on Bruce's burden as his own.

"...Alfred?"

He came out of his reverie to find Maya standing over him, and right behind her, the figures of Commissioner Gordon and his daughter, the much-talked-of Barbara Gordon, Jr. At least, Alfred _guessed _the tall, gangly woman was Barbara; with her punk haircut, various piercings, and the hint of a tattoo creeping up her neck, Alfred couldn't see that it could be anyone else.

"What are you doing out here, Alfred?" Maya asked. She glanced at the closed door.

"Dr. Thompkins is in with her right now." Alfred attempted to arrange his face into a reassuring expression, but it wasn't convincing enough for Maya, whose instincts had been sharpened from her time of working at Safe Haven.

"What's wrong, Alfred?"

Behind her, Gordon and his daughter became more alert. Aware of this, Alfred tried to appear unconcerned while remaining honest. "Oh, nothing much, I daresay, dear. Try not to worry overly much."

"You don't do that unconcerned thing very well, Alfred." Maya shook her head. "But I appreciate your discretion." She remembered her diplomacy skills and glanced back at the Commissioner. "Have you met Commissioner Gordon?"

"I believe we have met, actually," Gordon said, taking charge. "At a fundraiser, a month or two back. You're an associate of Bruce Wayne's, yes?"

"The family butler." Alfred confirmed this readily, recognizing and respecting the authority that Gordon exuded. "I've been with the Waynes for decades. And you're here because...?"

Gordon recognized the prompt. "I'm here to see Annabeth de Burgh—to see how she was doing, et cetera. I didn't want to come too soon, thought it would be good to give her some time to recover. How is she doing?"

Alfred wasn't sure how to respond to this question, considering as how he was as much in the dark as anyone else, but by an unusual stroke of good timing, he was saved from having to answer. Just then, the door opened, and Bruce slipped out of her room. He blinked in momentary surprise as he took in the increased number of visitors, but after a moment, he nodded in recognition. "Commissioner."

"Mr. Wayne." The two men exchanged the requisite hearty handshakes, and then Gordon got down to business. "I thought I would stop by to visit Miss de Burgh before I headed downtown to prepare for the rally." He glanced back at Barbara. "And my daughter wanted to come as well. Miss de Burgh made quite an impression on her before..everything."

"Now's not the best time," Bruce told them. "Her doctor's with her right now—"

"What's wrong?" Maya demanded.

"Nothing too much," added the unperturbed voice of Dr. Thompkins. She had slipped into the corridor unnoticed. "Her temperature's a little bit elevated, and it looks like her body's trying to fight off a little bit of an infection. I've given her a mild sedative, and I'm putting her on a course of antibiotics. She'll be fine..." She quirked an eyebrow in amusement as Bruce abruptly disappeared back into the hospital room. "I'll be around all day, keeping an eye on things. In the meantime, I'm going to consult with the nurses."

She left them in various states of concern and preoccupation. Maya and Gordon particularly were anxious—in a day already fraught with anxieties and potential complications, this was a most unhappy development. "We need to leave for the rally," Gordon remarked to no one in particular. "Sooner, rather than later. It can't exactly happen, now, without Wayne."

Alfred considered the situation. "I have an idea—Maya, my dear, would you go in and attempt to convince Master Wayne to leave with the Commissioner?"

"Sure—although I don't think he's going to listen to me."

"Dear girl, he's spent the last week trying to get you to take on the mantle of leadership...have you learned nothing?" Alfred gave her an encouraging smile and nudged her to the door of Annabeth's room. "I'm going to see if I can track down Janey."

A nurse happened to be passing by at that moment, and she was fortunately one of the ones who had the presence of mind to stay on the good side of the VIP clients. "I'll page her."

"What are you going to do?" Barbara asked. It was the first time she had actually spoken up.

"It's what _you're _going to do, if you are amenable, my dear," Alfred said. "Would you care to spend a little time here at the hospital today?"

Barbara had intended to go along to the rally; it appealed to her decidedly feminist and admittedly ball-busting nature. But she had grown up in an environment where public service was not merely a job, but a way of life, and she went where she was needed. "Sure, I can stick around."

"I don't want her here."

Three sets of eyes swiveled around in surprise to take in the stern visage of Bruce, who once again had emerged from Annabeth's room, Maya right behind him.

"A little early in the game to take a dislike to me, don't you think?" Barbara pointed out. "Have we even been officially introduced?"

"A valid point, Miss Gordon," Alfred said, smoothly covering for Bruce. "I believe Master Wayne is simply concerned about Annabeth awakening to strangers rather than familiar faces. Isn't this correct, sir?"

"Exactly, Alfred," Bruce agreed. He had remembered, almost too late, that the only time he had met—and had been given reason to dislike—Barbara Gordon had been when she was interfering with his "work" as the Batman. "I apologize for being so abrupt. It's been a stressful time. I'm Bruce Wayne, and you must be Barbara Gordon."

"That's who I am most of the time," Barbara smiled enigmatically. "I'm sorry things have been so difficult. I actually came along with my father today to offer my help—I met Annabeth just the once, but I quite liked her. I'd be happy to stay with her, and I promise I won't be too bad of an influence."

Thus, Bruce's sudden and short-lived rudeness was swept away, forgotten by most. Janey turned up just then, adding a welcome distraction, and so everyone focused back on Annabeth and the unexpected complications.

"You don't want to leave her," Janey instantly divined. "She's a little sick, and you don't like leaving her."

"Pretty much," Bruce agreed.

"Tough shit." Janey saw his surprise and shrugged. "For some crazy-ass reason, my best friend likes you, rather a lot. She _approves _of you. You really think she'd forgive you if you ditch this? You're in her inner circle, that means you have to meet her expectations and standards. And that means _Gotham always comes first."_

Alfred had to turn away to hide the uncharacteristic smirk that he felt trying to creep its way onto its face. Usually, telling Bruce Wayne that Gotham came first was like reminding an Islamic terrorist to praise Allah. But apparently, in the wake of the events of the week, Bruce had temporarily lost track of his commitment to the city.

What was most disturbing—Alfred wasn't at all sure that was a bad thing.

Still, the wake-up call had come. The irony of Janey's mini dressing-down had the necessary effect upon Bruce, and he nodded. "You're right."

Gordon and Maya breathed tiny sighs of relief.

"I'll be here with Annabeth all day," Janey promised.

"So will I." The grin that Barbara flashed at Janey was both impish and conspiratorial. "We have things well in hand, so I think it's time for you all to get moving, yeah?"

Still, Bruce didn't look happy. But he saw how anxious Maya was, and he saw Janey's reassuring nod. Most comfortingly, he remembered Leslie,who was no doubt raising hell and demanding a troop of nurses to be stationed right outside the door.

"She'll be fine, Master Wayne. It's just an infection—it does happen. Let her rest and she'll be back on track soon." Alfred did his best to sound reassuring. "All will be well."

He was only partly right. Annabeth would recover physically, that much he knew, but it was far too soon to say what effect the strange and painful tragedies of the past week would have on her. _Still, not something to think on just yet,_ he reminded himself as he ushered Bruce, Maya, and Gordon down the hallway. He glanced back at Janey and Barbara; the two women were already heading back into Annabeth's room. Really, what worry was there? She might not be aware of it, but Annabeth had a devoted team of people who were rallying around. The thing that tugged most at Alfred's heart was the knowledge that Bruce Wayne had so few.

* * *

There were still a few hours to go before the events of the day commenced, but there was plenty to do. There were officials to meet, sound systems and microphones to check, speeches to practice, agendas and schedules to review. Gordon was immediately caught up into these preparations, and had to leave them. But in the warm, well-equipped City Hall Conference Room where they had been ensconced, Bruce and Maya had a view of the goings-on on the street below.

Every now and then an aide would pop in, solicitously inquiring if they had all they required, and could she get them anything to drink? But other than that, they were left to their own devices, which for Maya mainly meant pacing the room, and for Bruce, meant watching her.

"Calm down," he advised at one point. "By the end of the evening, this will all be over. And you'll realize that everything went well, due in no small part to yourself."

Maya felt herself, inexplicably, goaded out of her typically mellow good-humor. "Easy for you to say, Bruce. You're pretty much a celebrity in this town—how many of these kind of events have you organized?"

"Well, none." Bruce saw her look of amazement and extrapolated. "Mainly because up until recently my philanthropy was from a distance, a lot more hands-off." He ignored the suggestive smirk that immediately danced its irreverent way across Maya's lips, and plunged on. "And even I were to get involved in something like this, I'd outsource it to someone in the Wayne Foundation."

"Of course." Maya rolled her eyes and resumed her pacing. "What if no one shows up? Can you imagine how humiliating that would be?"

"I don't think that's going to be an issue." More to amuse himself and bait Maya than anything else, Bruce had decided to slip back into his indolent playboy demeanor. It was almost refreshing. "I mean, Gotham enjoys a good spectacle. And I think Vicki Vale ran a piece in the _Gazette_ about it this morning. So you should find something else to worry about."

Maya rolled her eyes in a manner which confirmed that she had spent far too much time being trained by Annabeth, back when Safe Haven was a functioning halfway house. However, he didn't have the opportunity to follow this up, as Maya abruptly ceased her pacing and ground to a halt in front of one of the windows overlooking the steps of the City Hall. "Oh, shit."

Something in her tone told Bruce to actually pay attention, and he joined her at the window. In an unusual display of vulgarity, he felt compelled to agree. "Oh, shit."

They took in the crowds beginning to throng around, despite the bitter cold.

"What time is it?" Maya asked, not daring to avert her eyes from the window.

"Just getting on two p.m." Even Bruce allowed himself a moment of mesmerism.

"What time does the rally start?"

"Not until four-thirty."

They stood side by side at the window and watched as another group of people joined the crowd.

"At least we know people are still reading the newspaper," Bruce offered.

* * *

Just past four-thirty, as the winter day began its brief descent into dusk and then dark, Annabeth's dream came true.

The twisted pity of it was that she was not awake to see it happen. Dr. Thompkins had been quite vigilant in her watch over Annabeth, and over the course of the day, while the infection abated, Annabeth's discomfort did not. So they had strengthened her sedative, and as a result, she was slumbering quite soundly as the rally began.

Her company, however, was wide awake with their eyes glued to the television. From their uncomfortable seats by Annabeth's bed, Janey and Barbara watched the coverage of the rally, delivered courtesy of GCN.

"Good turnout," Barbara remarked.

"Looks like it. Do they have any estimates yet?"

"Doubtful—oh, look, there's Dad!"

Janey had only spent the afternoon with Barbara, but was already amazed by the way that this tough, tattooed, smart-ass woman seemed to be reduced to something of a daddy's girl every time Commissioner Gordon so much as breathed. She kept this thought to herself, however, and simply kept her eyes up on the television screen.

Commissioner Gordon didn't take the podium, however, but stood off to the side as Mayor Garcia blustered his way to the microphone.

"Citizens of Gotham," he began, and his voice was smooth enough, respectful enough to dupe thousands of spectators into thinking he was a forward-thinking and conscientious public servant, "you are part of history on this evening. This is unprecedented, and entirely new to our city. Crime has been for many years a regrettable stereotype associated with our fine city, and it has only been in recent times that we have begun to successfully fight back. And now this evening, as we Take Back the Night, we invite you to help in this fight. I now turn the microphone over to our beloved Commissioner Gordon, who will lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance."

He stepped away from the podium.

"Son of a _bitch!" _Barbara howled in outrage. She glanced over at Annabeth, who slumbered on, undisturbed. "Sorry," she whispered to Janey. "Still, that son of a bitch. What the fuck sort of pansey-assed, lukewarm, half-baked speech was that?" Her face was becoming as red as her hair. "He's got an opportunity to court the vote of several thousand feminists, make a stand against domestic and sexual violence, and what the good fuck does he do? He screws the pooch! He drops the ball!" She glared at Janey. "Don't you have anything to say?"

"I'm just trying to think if there are any more metaphors for you to throw into the mix," Janey answered helpfully. "Look, chill. I'm pretty sure this is no surprise about the Mayor. Whenever Annabeth has talked about him, it's not exactly been a glowing report."

Barbara had ceased to listen. "Now what the sweet holy fuck is this?" She was gazing in astonishment at the monitor and watching as Bruce stepped up to the podium. "Bruce Wayne's giving a speech?"

Janey smirked. "Well, it's not like there was anyone else around to do it...Donna Drake is dead, and Annabeth here isn't exactly turning cartwheels. Maya would have had a nervous breakdown...so Bruce was the last remaining option from Safe Haven."

Shaking her head half in wonder, half in disbelief, Barbara could only remark, "Well, this should be interesting."

Neither of them felt the need to acknowledge the bitter fact that Annabeth wouldn't be awake for any of it.

Delivering speeches to several thousand people wasn't really an activity in which Bruce had much experience. Somehow, the whole double-life as a lazy playboy by day, crusading vigilante at night had kept him from such shenanigans. Sure, he has taken a public speech and debate class at some point in his abbreviated and mis-spent college career, but it had all been so theoretical. Nothing like this.

And as Bruce stepped towards the microphone and gazed out at the crowds, their faces expectantly tilted up to face him, he couldn't help but to wonder if perhaps his lack of experience would be painfully evident. He thought of Annabeth at the hospital—thought of their child, a pathetic little scrap of life that had never stood a chance. Leslie had said that it would have been tiny, as small as a grain of rice, and it seemed strange that the loss of something so small could cause such a savage pain. Then he thought about Safe Haven, and the women he had encountered there, and their desperation coupled with their stoic bravery. He thought of Marjane, he thought of Trinity, he thought of his mother, even. And then he thought of Annabeth again, as she had been when she was a freshman in college, tasting freedom for the first time, ultimately preyed upon and victimized.

All of this thinking took place over several seconds, as he stood there, silently, at the podium. Alfred and Maya watched apprehensively, and so did Gordon. Mayor Garcia felt the beginnings of a satisfied smile creep to his mouth.

In Annabeth's hospital room, this time it was Janey who began to screech. "Shit, Bruce, say something!"

Obligingly, he did.

"Mayor Garcia is right in one sense—this event _is _new to our City. But with all respect, Mayor, you failed to mention the most important thing—_it is overdue." _Instinctively, he paused, waiting for the crowd to take in his words. They did, and they applauded. "This rally has been overdue in our city for many years. For years, we were afraid to say or do anything in our own defense, or in defense of our families, our friends, our neighbors. We have been silent too long. I will remain silent no longer, and I challenge you to raise your voice, too.

"All violence against innocent civilians is a deplorable thing, of course, and I do not intend to diminish the anguish that any person, man or woman, adult or child, has endured at the hands of a violent person. But violence against women and children is particularly reprehensible." He gazed beyond the audience for a moment, and then spoke again. "It is easy for the economically advantaged population to be ignorant of this side to our city, just as it is easy for those who are lower income to forget that violence can permeate all social and economic boundaries. This violence can effect any one, any where, and it is my intention tonight to let the people of this city know that _they are not alone. _There is hope. There is strength in yourself, and in your neighbor. There is honor. There is an obligation to protect each other. And there is an obligation to Take Back the Night. And we are going to do that now. Take back your lives. Take back our city. Take back the night."

Quickly, he stepped down from the podium, not waiting to take in the surprisingly loud thunder of applause. Katie Moriarty, the wife of the President of Gotham University, stepped forward. "It's time for the March and the Vigil, ladies and gentlemen," she intoned. "I invite you to join us as we unite in this stand against violence."

In the hospital room, both Janey and Barbara had fallen silent as they tried to comprehend what their eyes and ears were telling them. On the television monitor, one by one little golden lights began to appear as thousands lit their candles.

"Huh." Janey glanced over at Annabeth. _Maybe she's got better taste than I thought._

"Who'da thunk it?" Barbara asked rhetorically. "Maybe the man can string a couple of sentences together."

In the bed, Annabeth began to stir, and this momentarily pulled their attention back to their current surroundings.

"What the hell is going on?" Annabeth croaked. She was scarcely awake, but already confused by Barbara's presence. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Someone had to babysit you." Barbara was unfazed by her sour temper. "I volunteered. You're welcome."

"Hey, sweetie," Janey smiled. "How do you feel?"

"Like I'm recovering from a gunshot wound and a miscarriage, how else?" Annabeth's eyes darted to the television. "What's that?"

"Uuuum..." Janey didn't relish telling Annabeth that she had slept through the majority of the speeches, such as they were, but as it turned out, she didn't need to. Barbara would go where angels feared to tread.

"You missed it, lady. Snored through most of it, I may add."

"Well, shit."

"I think she must be feeling better," Janey remarked to no one in particular.

* * *

_It was, as the speakers pointed out, an unprecedented event: four thousand men and women converged on City Hall, during the week between Christmas and New Year's (in rather cold weather, I might add), to make a stand against domestic and sexual violence. They marched through the streets of Gotham, their candles lit and emitting a golden glow, which seemed a delightfully symbolic talisman against the evils we all know lurk in the shadows of this city..._

Vicki Vale paused for a moment and stretched, sneaking in a little back-popping as well. And then she contemplated her column. The feature article (front page, she delightedly noted) covering the rally had hit the streets the morning after, and now for follow-up, she was working on an editorial column...she frowned. Christ, when had her prose gotten so purple? It didn't matter; she needed to get something out, and soon. Time was not her friend...

"Vale!"

As her editor's dulcet tones rang out through the bullpen, Vicki cringed. She had been expecting this all morning, ever since she had woken up and hit the blogs, first thing. It had started as just a brief mention in a paragraph of a well-known gossip blog, and before she could begin to say "scooped," it had gone viral. And then one of the less respected—and even less respectful—news stations had caught on...long story short, so far as Vicki could tell, was that the sleazy Dr. Andrews had gone to some equally sleazy celebrity columnist who was in possession of rather less morals than Vicki...and now every tech-savvy resident of Gotham, as well as anyone who had access to a television, knew that Bruce Wayne had knocked up Annabeth de Burgh, who had obligingly (as some were beginning to say) lost the baby.

Needless to say, Vicki's boss did not sound thrilled. In fact, she didn't wait for Vicki to come to her; she came out to her cubicle, practically steaming through the nose. "I thought you had an _in,_ Vale. I thought you and Wayne had an understanding."

"We do." Vicki was a hard one to ruffle, but even she was having a difficult time, at the moment, remembering why she had done what she had done for the sake of ethics. At the moment, she was hell and gone from being glad she had taken a stand.

"Well, then, maybe _I _don't _understand _how it is that some two-bit celebrity blog managed to catch on to an interesting bit about Bruce Wayne's sex life before we ever did. Do you care to explain that?"

Suddenly, Vicki was aware that her boss's boss, the Assistant Managing Editor, had suddenly materialized. And she decided, then and there, to take an enormous risk.

"I can explain it," she began, and then paused, trying to gather the right words together, "if you can explain how it wouldn't be condoning a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality."

"I don't follow."

"Annabeth de Burgh's doctor, a pissed-off little weasel, was the one with this information. I told him to fuck off, essentially. I'm not in the market for enabling those kind of ethical transgressions, and I went out on a limb and spoke for the _Gazette _as a whole. It's not my job to lay bare a family's tragedy just because some damned doctor can't keep his trap shut. I'll let some sleazy tabloid cover it before I ever touch it with a barge pole." Vicki's voice had been rising steadily as she delivered this diatribe, and was heartened by the sight of the Assistant Managing Editor nodding in agreement. "So excuse me if I missed the question in my job interview when you asked me if I was willing to sell my soul."

"Bit much, Vale," hissed the food columnist, next cubicle over.

"Not sure I agree," the Assistant Managing Editor said. This was the first point that Vale's boss realized _her _boss was in the room, and she looked quite dismayed. "In case you haven't noticed, folks, Gotham's trying to turn over a new leaf. Might not hurt us to roll with it like Vale here is doing." The Editor wandered off to find some other sort of melee to mediate.

Vicki's boss still wasn't thrilled. And she took her parting shot at Vicki: "At the very least, you could have warned us so we don't look like frigging idiots. And remember—you come out of this looking good, but things are much harder now for Wayne and his little girlfriend." In this at least, Vicki's boss was annoyingly correct. But she was also quite skilled at turning anything to her benefit, and to the benefit of the paper. "I want you to stop writing that editorial. Instead, I want you to report on Dr. Andrews' violation of confidentiality and ethics."

* * *

It had become customary for Annabeth's support team to have a little mini-meeting at least once a day. Not everyone could attend all the time, of course—Janey's and Jason's schedules were erratic at best, and Maya's was not much better. But the same morning that Vicki Vale's boss was attempting to read her the riot act, Team Annabeth all managed to turn up in the hospital waiting room: Bruce and Alfred, of course, and Maya, Janey, and Jason had all turned up, as well as Dr. Thompkins. One might also be forgiven for thinking that a bulldog was present, for that was rather how Bruce was behaving.

Janey told him as much. "You need to chill, Bruce. We're all very protective of Annabeth...and we're not stupid."

It was almost as if he had not heard. "I don't want _anyone _mentioning this stuff in the paper to her. She's on the mend again, and I don't want anything upsetting her."

"I'm fairly certain your dictatorial manner won't exactly thrill her," Jason pointed out. "Janey's right, man. _Chill. _We're on the same team here."

Dr. Thompkins tried a slightly different tact. "I've spoken with the Head Nurse. She knows to make sure none of the nurses mention anything to Annabeth, at least for now. But eventually, she's going to figure it out. She's doing much better, again, and she's starting to ask when someone can bring her a laptop. And then there's pesky little thing called the television...all she has to do is pick up the remote."

"I think we're safe there," Janey smirked. "Last time Annabeth watched television was probably when MTV still played quality music videos."

"There's also the matter of the press." Alfred didn't actually wrinkle his nose in distaste—that would have been too undignified—but it was evident in his voice. "The wankers practically attacked us when we were coming in. Sooner or later, one of them is bound to get in." He glanced at Bruce, and silently wondered how well he'd handle it when it came to that.

"One thing at a time," Dr. Thompkins sighed. "I'll let you all dither and worry about that, but for now, I'm going back in to see Annabeth. There's something I want to discuss with her—and then with you all." After delivering this cryptic statement, she turned and departed, leaving the small group to alternate between pondering her words and plotting the demise of the Gotham City press.

Although neither Bruce nor Leslie Thompkins liked to admit it, Dr. Andrews had ultimately been right in transferring Annabeth. Apart from the mild and fleeting infection which had stymied her progress, her rate of recovery was even more rapid there. Surrounded by a continual stream of visitors—everyone from Commissioner Gordon and his exasperating eldest daughter, on down to some of the little children that had, until recently, lived in Safe Haven—Annabeth found herself constantly drawn out of her own unhappy thoughts, and forced to interact with the swarm of humanity that refused to leave her alone. Between the company, and the never-ending poking, prodding, testing, and questioning that Leslie kept up, Annabeth had found herself completely exhausted by early evening, and often would slip into a brief cat nap at random times of the day.

She was awake when Leslie came to visit her that morning, and she endured the examination with stoic patience. Until the end, when she began asking questions. "When can someone bring me my laptop? I feel so isolated. All I get to do all day is lay here and sleep or else listen to everyone fuss over me."

"Mmmm." Leslie jotted something down on Annabeth's chart. "If I tell you something, you need to promise not to get your hopes up." She waited until she had Annabeth's eager nod, and then continued. "Keep recovering the way you are, and you're going to be out of here very soon...maybe by New Year's."

Annabeth's reaction was surprising, although in hindsight, Leslie knew she should have seen it coming. The poor woman had practically had a panic attack.

After several minutes of strangled gasping, Leslie managed to get Annabeth calmed back down. "You want to talk about it?" It was her favorite, and most useful, phrase. Simple, noncommittal, but undeniably caring. Worked every time. Including now.

Annabeth lowered her bed back down so that she could gaze up at the ceiling—her way of avoiding others' eyes, Leslie had realized.

"I guess I just...could avoid things while I was here," Annabeth said after a moment. "When I'm all trussed up in bed like an over-medicated chicken, there's not much I can do, even if I wanted. But now, if I'm going home...I have to make decisions. Figure things out. And I don't know that I'm ready."

"Is anyone ever ready?" Leslie pointed out, not unreasonably. Very wisely, she didn't ask what decisions Annabeth would have to make. "Seems like life doesn't give a hoot one way or another if you're ready for what it's throwing at you. Panicking won't help you get any more prepared."

It was tough love, but it was also what Annabeth responded to. She nodded, and Leslie gently patted her hand. "Anyway, my dear, you have a great many friends to help you through this."

"I know," Annabeth said, "but they're not the ones who have to feel what I feel."

They both heard the sound of approaching footsteps outside the door, and Annabeth quickly snapped her mouth shut. And a moment later, Bruce blustered into the room. "Hello, you," he said to Annabeth, and Leslie heard neither none of his public jocularity or the almost-angry bossiness he had displayed earlier. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired of people asking me that," Annabeth said, but her smile was genuine, and took the barb out of her words. Again, much different than how she spoke to the others. _Curious effect these two have on each other, _Leslie thought as she busied herself with Annabeth's charts again. In this way, she was able to silently observe them: Bruce immediately flung himself into the chair closest to Annabeth's bed and began talking, determinedly keeping the conversation steered towards not much of anything of substance. Annabeth seemed content to humor him, and just listened, her fingers plucking restlessly at the blanket.

Never before had Leslie truly appreciated the term "in rude health" before then; but seeing Bruce, in all his hale, hearty vigor, right up against pale, frail Annabeth, who was silently suffering from pain, Leslie truly saw what it meant. To be as healthy as Bruce was, when compared to Annabeth's fragile state, did seem almost rude.

But it could not be helped.

"Knock knock!"

They were interrupted by an unfamiliar voice; in surprise, they looked to the doorway, where stood a most unexpected person...

"Elisa!" Bruce exclaimed, his attention momentarily diverted from Annabeth. "Where on earth did you come from?"

"Africa, quite literally." Elisa stepped into the room and held her hands out to Bruce, who dutifully rose, crossed the room, and grasped her hands. He bent over nearly double to kiss her cheek. "Bradford and I got in on Christmas Eve, which was no small miracle." She pulled away from Bruce and headed straight for Annabeth's side. "Hey there."

"Hey, stranger," Annabeth said. Seeing Elisa again, for the first time since the weekend at Bellingham, was an unexpected assault on her spirit, dredging up suppressed emotions and memories. Everything had changed, so painfully and abruptly, since then. Still, she felt compelled to actually make an attempt at some normalcy. "How was Africa?"

"To hell with Africa!" Elisa dismissed an entire continent with this abrupt declaration. "How are _you? _How on earth did you end up here?"

"Aaaah..." Annabeth struggled to think of the most appropriate way to explain things. Her eyes flitted, briefly, to Bruce, and then focused back on Elisa. "I don't suppose you'd be satisfied with 'it's a long story'?"

As Elisa settled in, Leslie touched Bruce's arm. "How about you and I take a little stroll around the floor?"

Reluctantly Bruce relinquished his attentions, and allowed himself to be led from the room. Neither Elisa nor Annabeth noticed.

"You and Alfred are about the only ones who feel like they can get away with telling me to leave her," Bruce remarked as they headed back towards the group in the waiting room. Still, he glanced back at Annabeth's room. Leslie placed her hand through Bruce's elbow and steered him forward.

"You're going to have to get comfortable with letting her recover, Bruce," she told him. "In fact, I want you to _help_ her recover, _help_her stand on her own again."

"What do you mean?" he started to ask, but by that point, they had returned to the company of Alfred, Maya, Jason, and Janey, all of whom turned their faces expectantly toward them.

Without preamble, Leslie began. "I wanted to talk to you all. You're the people who are currently closest to Annabeth, and I think it's time you all have a chance to weigh in what's next."

"What _is _next?" Maya asked.

"Annabeth was asking something similar earlier. What I can tell you is this: within the week, Annabeth is going to be fit to be discharged."

Alfred gave a little jerk of surprise. "So soon?"

"So soon," Leslie confirmed. "All that's happening here is that she's lying still and being watched by doctors. Other than that infection—which we're monitoring, but it's pretty much gone—there haven't been any complications, and aside from the completely understandable pain, she's pretty close to fine."

"How mobile is she?" Alfred asked.

"As of yesterday, she's getting to and from the bathroom on her own. Today she managed to give herself a shower. It's not hurting her to breathe. She's just got some fairly intense cramping and pain in her abdomen." Leslie ducked her head. "I disagreed with the chief surgeon Dr. Andrews about moving her, but now I think he was right. Her rate of recovery has been so fast, I can understand why he wanted to keep her moving. At this point, there's no where for her to go but home."

She allowed those words to sink in. And as she expected, no one seemed to think this was a fabulous plan.

"Home?" Janey said bitterly. "Home is a barren condo. Her animals aren't even there—Jason and I have had them since...she got shot."

Maya nodded in agreement. "I'm not you, Leslie...I'm not her doctor, but I can say that if I was you, I wouldn't be so quick to release her, just so she could go home alone. She's been through a lot of trauma, physical and emotional. The only way she's going to recover is if she's taking care of herself—and she never did that, not even in the best of times. And she'll make herself sick, work herself to death."

Jason decided to speak up. "Knowing Annabeth, she'd say that work would make her feel better. And she might be right. Safe Haven needs to be rebuilt, and she'll throw herself into it...the routine will do her good, but she'll probably overwork herself."

Unhappily, they all agreed on this point.

Leslie nodded. "What I'm hearing from all of you is that discharging Annabeth could be both the best and the worst thing that I could do for her recovery."

"Succinctly phrased," Alfred finally spoke, "but yes."

Leslie lowered her chin in thought for a moment. She was quite conscious of their eyes boring into her, waiting for her decision.

"I'll discharge her," Leslie finally said. "If she's in the care of one of you for at least a week."

Instead of the rush of eager, loving volunteers that she had expected, Leslie's idea was greeted with a heavy silence. Maya, Janey, and Jason each looked extremely uncomfortable; Bruce and Alfred, simply bemused.

"We'd love to have Annabeth..." Janey glanced at Jason, and then back at Leslie. "But I don't know that she'd want to be there with us right now. We're...kind of getting ready for someone else."

"Someone else?" Leslie repeated this, her mind blank. And then realized what they meant. "Ah. I see."

Bruce snapped to attention and scrutinized Janey. "You're pregnant."

"We are," Janey confirmed softly. "We just found out a couple of weeks ago...I'm sorry, Bruce."

With an effort that he struggled to hide, Bruce found it within himself to offer a smile.

"Congratulations. And...don't be sorry."

Leslie shook her head. "For obvious reasons, then, Annabeth probably shouldn't stay with you."

"Agreed," Janey and Jason chorused.

"I live so far out," Maya said. "And both my fiance and I are away from home most of the day, and into the evening, working. I don't think we can take care of Annabeth that well."

Alfred spoke up before Bruce had a chance to. "It seems to me that the most logical choice would be for Annabeth to come stay at the Manor for a bit." He didn't even glance at Bruce as he said this. "It is rather far out, of course-"

"I can drive out there whenever," Maya volunteered quickly. "At least after work each evening."

"But there's plenty of room, and there can always be someone be at home to look after her," Alfred continued. Now he glanced at Bruce. "What do you think, Master Wayne?"

Now all eyes were on him. Bruce knew that this was the most sensible choice; he knew that it would be the best for Annabeth. And a part of him _wanted _her there, _wanted _her presence at the Manor. But another part of him didn't want her near anything to do with his double life. A part of him felt as though it had been that double life which had landed her in her current state. He was painfully aware of the Batman in his soul, practically hopping up and down in protest and dismay. _Too bad._

"I think it's the best possible choice," he said finally. "Not just the most logical."

Leslie was pleased. "I think you're right. And I think being out of the hospital will do Annabeth a world of good. Like Maya, I'll come out every day..."

"She might not want to do this," Janey pointed out. Long years of experience had informed her of her friend's deeply stubborn, independent streak. "Perhaps you should deliver it to her as a _fait accompli?"_

Bruce actually smiled. "Perhaps _you _could deliver it...you see, I'll make sure she comes to the Manor with us...but I sure as hell won't be the one to tell her."

In the end, they told her as a group—Janey, Leslie, and Bruce. Alfred, Maya, and Jason decided to make a tactical retreat and avoid any possible displeasure.

"After all, Master Wayne," Alfred said, with just a hint of orneriness, "if she's to be staying at the Manor for a while, it wouldn't do for her to be angry at _both _of us."

Elisa was still in the room, visiting with Annabeth, chattering on about her honeymoon. Janey, most well-versed in the contrary ways of her closest friend, made a swift decision. There was just a chance that with Elisa there, Annabeth wouldn't react _too_ badly.

"So, Annabeth," she started, before Leslie or Bruce could say anything, "Leslie says you could be going home soon..."

Annabeth nodded. "That's what she told me, too."

Here Janey faltered, just for a moment. She glanced at Bruce, who suddenly seemed very intent on studying the various medical equipment in the room. "Here's the thing...we don't think you can go home to an empty condo...with no one to take care of you..." she lapsed off, trying to find the best words. But Annabeth didn't give her a chance.

"No worries; I was thinking about it, and I can probably hire a caregiver to stay with me the first few days. And then I should be as right as rain."

Leslie stepped in. "Let me bring a different idea to the table, Annabeth. Rather than having to go do abruptly back into your normal life, why don't you have a transitional period? Time away from the hospital, but not yet back home? It's been a very difficult time for you, and I think you need some time and a safe place to convalesce, emotionally."

"I'm not sure if you're saying you want me to go to a nursing home or a loony bin," Annabeth told them.

"Neither." Bruce finally decided to bite the bullet and speak up. "Alfred and I want you to come stay with us at the Manor for a bit."

"No."

"I knew it," Janey said, to no one in particular. "Annabeth, stop being a dumbass. You're getting too healed for here, but not better enough to go home alone."

"_Hell _no."

"Should I be insulted?" Bruce tried for a light-hearted approach. "I know Alfred and I are a couple of fusty bachelors, but we can adapt—"

Annabeth glared at him. "Don't be silly. I don't want to get in your way."

No one but them understood the true nature of her comment. Janey rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Annabeth, don't be a martyr. I'm pretty sure Bruce can give up his wine, women, and song for a week or two without too much effort."

They ignored her. "I imagine you've got a lot of work to do," Annabeth said softly. _Work that's way more important than me_, her gaze silently added.

"I'm perfectly capable of multitasking," Bruce assured her. "Besides, I don't know that anything is much more important than making sure you're better."

"Oh, do say yes, Annabeth!" Elisa couldn't restrain herself any more. "The Winstons' Gotham estate is just a mile or two off, and we're staying there until the city townhouse is renovated. _Please..._I'll be able to come see you any time." She turned to Bruce. "Make her say yes, Bruce. I can help out."

"And Maya said she'll come out every day," Janey added. "You two can start working on getting Safe Haven going again."

For the next few minutes, they tag-teamed, first one, then another, then another, reasoning with Annabeth, then cajoling, then nagging. She was growing tired, they could see, and pressed this advantage. And they knew they had her beat when she turned to Bruce and asked—

"—do you have wi-fi at the Manor?"

Janey and Leslie let out audible sighs of relief, and Bruce gave a wide, genuine smile. "Of course."

"Fine. Only for a week." Annabeth stuck out her chin in a stubborn gesture of pointless defiance. "And then I'm out of there."

It could have ended perfectly, but for Elisa, who had arrived long after Bruce's mandate against mentioning the press. "Anyway, you'll be able to stay away from the reporters much more easily," Elisa added. "Right now, they're having a field day out there, bugging the hell out of everyone about your miscarriage-" she cut herself off as she saw Annabeth's confusion and everyone else shooting daggers at her. "Oh, shit."

Not long after, almost everyone left the room; Janey furious, Leslie resigned, and poor Elisa, mortified. Only Bruce remained, to stay with Annabeth as she silently processed this latest sorrow.

Much, much later, after almost everyone had left for the day, returned to their own quiet and relatively pleasant lives, only Bruce and Alfred remained. Alfred made himself comfortable in a chair right outside Annabeth's room, and Bruce stayed in Annabeth's room. Sitting. Thinking.

For a while, Annabeth's breathing had been even, smooth, and quiet. She had been laying still for a while, and Bruce was almost certain she was asleep. So it came as a little bit of a surprise when he heard her give a rather deep sigh. "What time is it?" she asked, without opening her eyes.

"Almost four in the afternoon." Bruce studied her face carefully. "How are you-"

"I'm feeling fine, Bruce." Even though she still didn't open her eyes, her lips curved into an unwilling smile. "I really am getting stir-crazy."

"We'll bust you out of here, soon enough," he promised. "We could try it later tonight, but I think the newspapers wouldn't take too kindly to the Batman kicking the ass of half the reporters in town."

"Can't have that." Annabeth's brow furrowed as she thought back to what he had just said. "Seriously, Bruce...you don't think I'll be in the way, at the Manor?"

"I don't know," Bruce tried to keep it light. "The Manor's pretty big. And Alfred will be around to babysit you." He reached over, and after hesitating for a moment, he lightly stroked her cheek, almost as though he were afraid her skin would shatter. "I think it's a good place for you to get back on your feet."

"You don't have...work to do?"

"Are you fishing for information, or are you genuinely concerned about my work?"

"I wasn't aware they were mutually exclusive." Finally Annabeth opened her eyes and pinned Bruce with her gaze. "If I'm climbing the walls, ready to get back to work, I can only imagine how you're feeling. And I don't want my presence at the Manor to keep you from...getting stuff done."

"I wasn't aware they were mutually exclusive." Bruce actually looked pleased with this feeble little volley; it had been a while since they had engaged in their repartee. "Work has been a little slow, I think, since everything happened. I probably need to be back out there soon."

"One of us needs to," Annabeth said. "And it's obviously not going to be me, at least for a while."

Just as Bruce was opening his mouth to answer, he was cut off by a knock on the door. He glanced at Annabeth, who nodded.

"Come in," Bruce called.

The door swung inward, and Alfred entered, followed by a woman neither of them had seen before. She was carrying a briefcase, and was dressed in one of the off-the-rack suits that Annabeth knew so well.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said. "Is this a bad time?"

"Depends on why you're here." This came from Annabeth, who was eying the woman with sudden, but muted expectation.

"I'm with Gotham County Social Services. My name is Danielle. Are you Annabeth de Burgh?"

"I'm not," Bruce told her.

"I am, more or less," Annabeth said. "What can I help you with?"

"I'm here to discuss Timothy Drake."

_Donna's son. _Bruce nodded, suddenly understanding. What was it that Annabeth had said, so long ago? _"I'm his godmother and guardian, did you know that?" _Donna was dead, and Annabeth—in more ways than one—was the only family Timothy had.

"Should we leave?" Bruce asked, indicating himself and Alfred.

"It won't take but a moment," the woman said. "We've been trying to get in touch with you for a while, but your doctor has you stashed quite safely away up until now."

"How's Timmy?" Annabeth interrupted. It was clear that she did not care to waste time on any casual conversation. "Where is he?"

"He's with a foster family at the present time," Danielle told her. "He's understandably upset, as any child would be. He wants his mother, but he's asked for you a time or two, as well. Once you're discharged from the hospital, we'll go through the process of assessing your suitability as a guardian...and given the recent information that came to light about your joint parentage, your case is substantially strengthened."

And with those simple words, the inconsequential social worker unintentionally put Annabeth solidly on the road to recovery.


	51. Chapter 51

If Annabeth's recovery had been remarkable before the social worker came to visit, it was nothing short of miraculous thereafter. Without meaning to, Danielle wrought a marked change; fueled with the determination to get better and claim her rights to her godson (ward? half-brother?) Annabeth doggedly struggled, day by day, to wellness. She began to take more of an interest in her surroundings, she attempted to move around more, she even tried to make idle conversation from time to time. Still, it was a struggle.

At the same time, Alfred struggled to make the Manor welcoming and habitable. And Bruce struggled to come to a mental place where he could be happy that Annabeth was joining them, however briefly; he tried to think of her in terms of a refugee, rather than an interloper.

"You seem rather preoccupied," Annabeth remarked one afternoon, just after Leslie informed them that she would be released within a day or so. "Are you sure this isn't going to be a problem?"

"It won't be." This promise ringed hollow to them both, and Bruce hastened on to try to explain himself. "I think the Manor is a fairly private place, all things considered. One could say that it harbors a few secrets..."

"And you're nervous about all the people who could be traipsing in and out," Annabeth finished. "Reasonable...but try not to worry. Just have Alfred escort anyone in and out. And I promise you, I'll be out of there as soon as I'm able. As soon as Leslie says so. _And _I promise, no wild parties. After all, that's Bruce Wayne's territory."

Still, Bruce didn't look too happy. And after a moment, he blurted, "What if I don't want you to leave?"

Until the day she died, Annabeth would not ever figure out who was more surprised—herself, or Bruce, who looked as though he intensely wished he had left the words unspoken. She blinked owlishly, trying to comprehend his words, and then after a moment, was only able to come up with "Uuuuuhhh..."

"Never mind." Bruce shook his head and looked a little sheepish. "I'm just talking crazy talk. I need some sleep."

"So do I, Bruce." The hint was gentle but clear, and Bruce picked up on it immediately. He nodded. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"I know."

After he left, Annabeth reached over and turned out the light by her bed. Instantly, her room went dark, with only a faint bluish glow fingering its way past the blinds from the city outside. Even fourteen stories up, she could hear the noises of the city; the honking of the taxis, the car engines, even the voices of pedestrians, she liked to think. It was a tiny grain of comfort—even when she felt so horribly alone, the people of Gotham were still there. They were most of them ignorant to her existence, but that didn't matter—what mattered was that she had spent years in service to them. Her life until now had been a labor of love, dedicated to making it a better city which could offer a better life.

And as she began to drift into an uneasy sleep, one more thought occurred to her: the same thing could be said for Bruce.

* * *

Just as Leslie had promised, Release Day came. Of course, given the capricious nature of hospital bureaucracy, Release Day was more like Release Evening: the sun was just beginning to set when the doctors finally gave Annabeth the all-clear and when Alfred steered the Rolls-Royce through the underground parking lot of the hospital, right up to the delivery entrance, where Bruce and Annabeth and Leslie all waited, well-hidden from the eyes of prying reporters.

Patiently, Annabeth sat in her wheelchair, waiting as Alfred inched the car as close to her as he dared. Behind her, Bruce stood, his hands on the handles of the chair; beside her, Leslie maintained a gentle, comforting presence. Even though it still surrounded her, the hospital was already beginning to retreat into Annabeth's past.

"Your ride awaits, my dear," Alfred said as he came around to her and opened the door for her. "Care for some assistance?" Annabeth was struggling get out of the wheelchair.

"Not a chance. I'm fine." Annabeth gave him a mischevious little smile—the most cheer she had managed in days—to take the sting from her words. "I'd like to try it on my own, if you don't mind."

Alfred nodded his understanding, and glanced sharply at Bruce, who looked very much as if he _did_ mind, and also as if he were itching to join Annabeth's side and help her into the car. With admirable restraint, he refrained, and simply watched as slowly, carefully, she hoisted herself out of the wheelchair and across the twelve inches of space separating the wheelchair from the car. Carefully she settled herself into the back seat. "Fuss at will," she then told Bruce.

"No need for that," Leslie said briskly. They had all agreed that she would stay at the Manor for a few days, and so would be following behind them in her own car. "No fussing," she stated flatly to Bruce. "Let Annabeth tell you what she needs, and don't assume."

Bruce and Leslie engaged in a brief staring contest. Alfred winked at Annabeth as he tucked a soft blanket around her legs. "Alright, my dear?"

"Just fine." Annabeth peered out at Bruce and Leslie. "You two done? Let's leave here before before some doctors change their mind...or before the press figures out where we're at."

She spoke sense, and both of them saw it. But just before they parted ways, Leslie caught Bruce's arm. "They gave her a mild painkiller and sedative just a little bit ago. She might get tired or loopy. With any luck, she'll konk out soon. It'll make the transition a little easier." With that, Leslie darted off to her car, and Bruce went around to the other back seat, where he quickly settled in. Glancing over at Annabeth, he couldn't help but to ask, "You okay? Comfortable?"

"Just fine, Bruce." Annabeth saw that this was not a substantial enough answer for him, so she extrapolated. "Tired, but fine. I'll be glad to get to the Manor." She leaned her head back against the back of the seat and let out a tiny sigh.

Alfred took his place behind the steering wheel and started the engine. In spite of her weariness, Annabeth opened her eyes and lifted her head. "That's the best sound I've heard all day."

Alfred chuckled gently. "Worried that you wouldn't get released today?"

"Damned straight. They were supposed to let me out at noon, and then, hour after hour, one delay after another, they kept pushing it back. Being in limbo is exhausting. I can't imagine how people in Purgatory feel."

Annabeth and Alfred tried to keep up a careful, empty banter, assiduously avoiding any topic of substance. The topic of the weather was quickly exhausted, and since Bruce chose to gaze morosely out the window rather than contribute to the faltering conversation, and since Alfred's primary focus was steering through the crowded Gotham streets, the talk quickly petered out entirely.

Wearily, Annabeth leaned her head against the cool glass of the window and closed her eyes. It had been since before Christmas since she had been on the outside of the hospital, and now that she was "released," she found herself not quite equal, not quite ready...not quite free.

_What is freedom, anyway? Where is it? Does it even exist?_

Where the hell had that thought come from? She was out of the hospital for all of what, ten minutes, and already delving into existential, ultimately pointless questions? Had getting shot and losing her only chance at a child taught her nothing? _Enough with the navel gazing, already. Not like it will lead anywhere good._

She began to doze, lightly, her body finally beginning to let go of the tension which had been building all day. In that half-dream state, an unknown time passed, as her consciousness drifted between awareness and oblivion, reality and imagination. Figures darted in and out of her mind; from time to time, sounds from the real world, such as Alfred's voice, or the blare of a horn, would weave themselves into her dream-realm. Just as she was starting to slip further into sleep, her dream intensified. Donna and Seth emerged from the other, faceless people; their dream-faces were unlined by the secrets and hatreds that had bound them together over the years. Silently they beckoned to Annabeth, and unwillingly, she began to follow them. Suddenly, there was a huge maze in front of them, surrounded on all sides by a menacing, thorny, impenetrable hedge. Donna and Seth set forth into the maze, and Annabeth knew she was to follow. She sped up, careful to always keep them in her line of sight. Thorns caught on her hair and scratched her arms, and overhead, she heard ominous rustlings and growls.

Fear began to grow within her.

Just as she followed them around a sharp corner, the maze ended abruptly and emptied onto the streets of midtown Gotham. Horns blared, drivers shouted, and all of the vitality and confusion of the city pressed in from every side.

And then the Batman was there, standing just behind Donna and Seth. They all looked at her expectantly. Donna, and then Seth, turned and began to walk away, deeper into the city crowds. The Batman remained, however, waiting, looking at her.

The maze pressed at Annabeth's back.

"This is your home." The Batman didn't move, but he had clearly spoken. "You're home now."

Without another thought, Annabeth turned and fled back into the maze.

"We're home now."

With a strangled, heavy breath, Annabeth jerked awake. "What?" she gasped.

Bruce looked as startled as she felt. "I said, we're home. We're at the Manor."

With the melancholic dream still tugging at her memory, Annabeth registered his words and peered out the window. They had passed through the City and Palisades and through the gates of the Manor, driven up the winding road, and stopped in front of the majestic stone steps leading to the front entrance. Bruce and Alfred had actually let her slumber on for another few minutes as Alfred had ascended the steps and opened the building, and as a result, the front doors were wide open, spilling light and presumably, warmth out into the chilly night.

"I think he figured this would be a nicer welcome," Bruce smiled. "Alfred's all about hospitality. You feel up to going up the steps? If you want, we can enter through the underground garage."

Annabeth shook her head, trying to rattle the remnants of the dream away as she did. "No...no. This is fine."

It was surprising, how fast Bruce moved; he practically hopped out of the car and bolted around, and then he was at Annabeth's door, opening it, offering assistance. _Assistance _wasn't actually the word for it; it appeared as though he intended to do everything for her. And suddenly, Annabeth was just too tired to give a damn.

She felt his hands unbuckling her seat belt and tugging it away; those same hands guided her out of the car, and only faltered for a brief moment when she leaned heavily against him; her arms, seemingly of their own volition, suddenly wrapped themselves around his waist as she steadied herself.

"You okay?" she heard him ask.

"Just tired."

Slowly they made their way up the steps to the door, Bruce's arm firmly around her shoulders, half- supporting, half-carrying her. Alfred patiently waited by the open door, sublimely indifferent to the biting cold of the night air. "Welcome to the Manor, Miss Annabeth."

"Thanks, Alfred."

Leslie had arrived by then, and was right behind them, her energetic presence almost tangible. "You're doing just fine, Annabeth. Just a few more steps, and we'll be inside."

And then they were inside, and the warmth of the Manor almost instantly revived Annabeth a little. She lifted her head and blearily took in the posh surroundings—had she been actually here before? It seemed like another lifetime. And in some respects, it was; at least one life had passed on since she had last been there.

_What an odd thought. _With a visible effort, Annabeth corralled her thoughts back to the present; she was aware that Bruce, Alfred, and Leslie were looking at her with trepidation. "These digs are nicer than the hospital."

She didn't catch the look that Leslie gave Alfred, who immediately, predictably, judged the situation with his usual accuracy. "I think we should probably get you settled into bed now, Miss Annabeth, what do you think?"

"Sounds good."

"I've prepared the Nouveau Suite for her, Master Wayne," Alfred mentioned off-handedly, ignoring the sharp look that Bruce gave him. Whenen they had re-built the Manor, Bruce and Alfred had remained true to the plans and décor that had gone before. That particular chamber was both Martha Wayne's old room, as well as an obsolete throwback to the days in which the master and the mistress of the house kept separate rooms. It was decorated just as Bruce's great-grandmother had had it appointed, in the florid, sensual curves of the Art Nouveau style. And more significantly, it was immediately connected to Bruce's room.

"Let's get her up there, shall we?" Leslie said briskly. "She needs to rest, and I want to do a quick check-up once we get her settled in."

Alfred nodded. "You two do that, and I'll prepare some light refreshments." And just like that, he slipped away into the depths of the Manor, leaving Bruce to slowly guide Annabeth up the stairs to the upper floors, and Leslie to follow slowly after.

"Watch the steps," Bruce said.

"What am I watching them do?"

To this, Bruce had no response; he merely tightened his grip on Annabeth's shoulder and continued the slow ascent up the stairs. Annabeth's head sagged for just a moment, as though she were overcome with exhaustion, and then she became alert again. "It seems like it's a long way away."

"The room isn't that far." Bruce was trying to concentrate on keeping her upright—as protective as he was, he still had enough sense to know that Annabeth would try to kill him if he carried her—and so wasn't paying too much attention.

"Not the _room." _Annabeth said this with a touch of exasperation, as though her meaning were obvious. "A normal life."

This remark took Bruce by surprise; even Leslie, who had been discreetly listening in, paused for this. Where the _hell _had that come from?

"Damned meds," Leslie muttered behind him. "Let's not encourage her to take any more of them."

"Sounds good to me," Bruce agreed.

Little by little, they made their way to the top of the stairs. Fortunately, Annabeth's designated suite was not too far beyond that, and Leslie had the presence of mind to hurry ahead, open the door, and turn on the lights. "Lord," she muttered after a moment of taking in its feminine opulence, "this is almost worse than the hospital."

Bruce ignored her, and immediately guided Annabeth toward the bed. She was almost gone at this point, and only made one remark as she settled onto the soft mattress. "At least this one doesn't have bed curtains."

"Sorry?" Leslie was beginning to sort through her bag of medical equipment. "What does she mean?"

Bruce grimaced at the painful memory of the stormy night they had spent together in Bellingham, wrapped up in the privacy of Annabeth's curtained bed. "Don't worry about it. Can you get her all set up from here on out?"

"I've got it covered." Leslie glanced at Annabeth. Without Bruce's arm supporting her any longer, she had simply toppled back on the bed, flat on her back. "She's pretty close to asleep. I'll meet you downstairs with Alfred."

Bruce exited the room as quietly as a 6-foot-2 mass of muscle and flesh could, closing the door behind him. Not three seconds after the door thumped softly closed, Annabeth jerked up again, nearly startling Leslie out of her skin.

"Is he gone?"

Realization fought with incredulity as Leslie gazed at a suddenly alert Annabeth. "Were you play-acting?"

"God, yes." Annabeth tried to smooth down her hair. "I cheeked those pain meds the nurses gave me—I don't really care to be under the influence of any sort of drugs. But I didn't want Bruce hovering and fussing. It'd drive a saint crazy, and anyway, he needs to rest just as much as I do. So I decided to act a little loopy."

"You're an odd bird," Leslie told her.

"It worked, didn't it? Anyway, the pain meds weren't really necessary. The pain's manageable."

"Still, maybe you should listen to the medical professionals." Leslie was donning her stethoscope. "Since you're so spry, you think you can change into your pajamas? I'll take your vitals when you're ready."

"What pajamas am I supposed to change into?" Annabeth pointed out. "It's not anyone gave me a courtesy heads-up, 'hey, you're going to be shot tonight at work, be sure to pack a suitcase for the hospital.'" She glanced down at the clothes she was wearing; it was nothing more than sweats and a flannel shirt that Janey had unearthed from lord only knew where. "Maybe I should just go naked."

Leslie cocked an eyebrow. "Sure you didn't take some of those pain meds?" Without waiting for an answer, she jerked her head towards a large armchair by the bed. "I think your Janey went to your house and packed a bag, actually. She swung by your place this morning, and then gave it over to Alfred earlier today."

"My place!" Annabeth actually perked up a little; it occurred to Leslie that the young woman was beginning to show actual signs of life. If getting her out of the hospital had been all it would take, they should have done it sooner. "Wait—my pets. Jed...and Wurzel...?"

"That must be the cat and dog Jason mentioned the other day. The animals are fine—Janey and Jason are keeping them at their place until you're back on your feet. Seems as though the cat beshat herself on the trip over. And that's a direct quote, I might add." Leslie's eyes twinkled with unseemly mischief.

"Sounds like Janey, alright...and like Wurzel..." Annabeth mumbled as she began pawing through her bags. Bless her, Janey had thought of everything, right down to her favorite pair of yoga pants and her special cleanser. But...what was this? Annabeth's face was a study in wonder as she pulled out a pair of wine-colored, satin pajamas. "These aren't mine."

Leslie shrugged. Her concerns weren't for misplaced sleeping apparel. "Guess they're yours, now. Suit up so I can check you over."

Ten minutes later, Leslie had finished. Carefully, she packed away her equipment and watched as Annabeth slowly settled back onto the pillows that had been artfully arranged on the bed. "Looks like you're in good shape, for the shape you're in. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Annabeth admitted. "And..."

"In pain?" Leslie prompted her with a knowing smirk.

"Not _too _much. Right now, I think what I really want is to sleep." Annabeth rubbed her head. "It's been a rather abrupt transition. And I just want to rest and...and..." she searched, vainly, for the word.

"Adjust?"

"I suppose that's the word for it." Annabeth settled deeper into the pillows and pulled the luxurious duvet over her weary, somewhat-broken body. She listened to the sounds of the older woman packing up and exiting the room, turning off the lights as she went. Only after Annabeth was truly alone in the darkened room, alone but for her still-over-active mind and her potent thoughts, did she ponder the pressing question: _How does one adjust to this kind of loss?_

It was a painful question, and it was a question she had managed to avoid asking for quite a while. It was easy to do when so many people were swarming around her in the hospital, demanding her body or her attention or both. And now, in the quiet, solitary darkness of Wayne Manor, Annabeth found herself finally confronted with what everyone had, in their own way, unintentionally or otherwise, tried to shield her from since the night that Seth Percival had shot a bullet straight into the heart of her world.

In the darkness, in the solitude, there was no one to witness Annabeth as she slowly came to terms with the reality of her life.

* * *

As Leslie made her way down the staircase, she saw both Bruce and Alfred waiting at the foot of the stairs, their heads tilted upwards, gazing at her expectantly. Upon her reaching the foot of the stairs, both of them held out an arm for her to take, and so Leslie was escorted, in ludicrously high style, to one of the parlors off the entrance hall. There, Alfred had built up a fire, turned down the lights, and had set out a light repast. Immediately, Alfred set about preparing a plate for each of them, and as Leslie seated herself, Bruce made a beeline for a sideboard near the food. "Time for a nightcap, I think. What would you like, Leslie?"

Leslie debated for a moment. "A small gin and tonic, perhaps." She rested for a moment with her eyes closed, enjoying the fire, and missed the strange look that Alfred cast Bruce as the latter began to prepare the gin and tonic, and then two scotch on the rocks.

"A bit late in the night for you to be drinking, isn't it, sir?" Alfred asked pointedly.

"I'm in for the evening." Bruce passed Alfred a glass and then Leslie, before he cradled his own drink, his fingers slowly stroking the heavy, cut crystal. "Everyone drink up."

But no one did, at least not at first. Each of them were too preoccupied with their own thoughts. Bruce, in particular, was woolgathering. He did not seat himself, but rather chose to stand by the fire.

"How is she?" he asked after a few moments. "Really?"

Leslie took her time in answering. When she finally did marshal her thoughts and began speaking, her voice was carefully modulated in the neutral tones of a medical professional. "With the gunshot wound, she's fine. It's healing nicely." She paused and looked down at her drink, as though she were asking it to offer the correct words. "Regarding her miscarriage...well. I'm not a specialist, just a family practitioner. But I've looked at her medical records, both from this last week, and from before. And it was really by an absurd, highly unusual fluke that she got pregnant to begin with." Leslie turned to Bruce. "So it would be even more unlikely, especially given this miscarriage, that she'll ever conceive again. And you don't need a specialist to tell you that."

He nodded. Leslie was not telling him anything that he had not already known.

"Emotionally, it's harder to say. You both know Annabeth better than do I...I don't think she's in shock over this. But she's very withdrawn, as we can all see. She's not communicating overly much." Leslie grimaced. "At the risk of sounding trite, it's all rather textbook. She's having difficulty expressing her emotions about it—she doesn't cry, at least as far as I can tell. And while god knows I'm not one to say how one should handle the loss of a child, I _do _suspect that she hasn't really come to terms with this. All I can suggest is that we provide her routine, stability, and a support network, and urge her to get some counseling." Her eyes searched Bruce's face, and he knew she was assessing him, trying to judge his own reactions.

After all, _he _had lost a child, too.

It was a sudden realization, perhaps more painful due to its unexpectedness. Bruce cocked his head, trying to listen to thoughts that only he could hear. _Yes—_he had lost a child, too. All along, up until now, he had been running around, care-taking, putting out fires and worrying about others, mainly Annabeth, and waiting for Annabeth to show some reaction. He had been grieving for Annabeth and her loss.

_It's my loss, too._

The meditative detachment he had taken such pains to cultivate over the years was no use to him now. It was not a situation he had ever thought he would encounter, and so, it was uncharted territory. He allowed the strange, aching sorrow to settle into him; he allowed the hollowness to begin to eat him from his core outwards. It was bitter, it was awful—and it was still only a fraction of what Annabeth was feeling. More to the point, he had been waiting in vain for Annabeth to give voice to her pain, when in fact, perhaps it was his own lack of awareness of his own pain that kept him from truly reaching out and connecting with Annabeth. They were both lost at sea at this particular juncture—it made sense to hang together. And if it was their mutual pain that bound them to each other...well, whatever got them through this.

"Excuse me," he said abruptly, setting his glass down onto the mantle. "I'll see you both in the morning." He gave no further explanation, but stalked out of the room.

Leslie and Alfred gave each other knowing looks, and then silently resumed their drinks.

* * *

As soon as he made his decision, Bruce wasted no time in making tracks to Annabeth's chambers. His pace was fast enough as he left Leslie and Alfred behind, but as he reached the foot of the grand staircase, he began to hurry. His shoes thumped against the cool marble; the sound echoed off the vast walls and sounded much more forceful than any of his own movements, on their own, could make it. And with each running step he took, he thought of all that Annabeth had told him—all of the stories of the people of Gotham, all of the people who were victims of tiny, domestic spats, or who had gotten lost in the system, or who were simply too poor or insignificant for most to notice. Until Annabeth had come along, he hadn't really thought about all of those overlooked people—those people of Gotham, whom he had vowed to help and protect and save, who had to pick through the ruins of shattered lives, or else lives only partially-lived, alone, unaided by anyone with power or influence.

He'd be damned if he made her pick through the ruins of her life alone.

Outside of her door, Bruce paused, for just a moment. Annabeth had set up so many boundaries in her life, physical and otherwise—would she appreciate him crashing through them, unasked, uninvited? Already Bruce was questioning his epiphany. She was probably asleep. How late was it? He glanced down at his watch, almost absently, and then went still.

10:47 PM.

He didn't tend to believe in fate, or meaningful coincidence; neither had much place in his world. But it was hard to ignore the insistently spooky coincidence—10:47, the time his parents were killed.

_The Batman wouldn't hesitate._

With this thought scolding him, he knocked once, loudly, to do his best to let Annabeth know he was coming in.

And then he went in.

It was dark, as he had expected it to be. Most likely Annabeth was asleep...after all, she had been on the verge of passing out when he had deposited her there earlier. Still, it couldn't hurt to check. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and then drew closer to the bed.

Yes, he had been right. Annabeth was asleep, quite soundly, in fact. Her breathing was deep and even, and she was curled into the tight, protective fetal position at one edge of the bed. He couldn't, wouldn't disturb her...but he didn't want to leave her, either.

The answer was obvious and simple. Just like they were back in the hospital, Bruce settled into the chair nearest to Annabeth's bed, and tried to get as comfortable as he could. At least there, he could be near her. Why it mattered, he didn't even bother to guess. He simply closed his eyes and listened to Annabeth's breathing and allowed himself to experience the grief that he had finally stopped holding at bay. It was as though Annabeth's presence allowed the grief to exist, and at the same time, she kept it from being too great. Strange though it sounded, it was almost like Annabeth was his talisman, his protective amulet.

With this odd thought on his mind, Bruce began to drift to sleep.

Cheeking her sleeping pill had been a mistake. Annabeth realized this at about 3:30 in the morning, when she abruptly awoke, pulled from an uneasy sleep by an equally uneasy dream. For a moment, she felt a terrifying disorientation; pitch blackness surrounded her, and she had an instinctive awareness that wherever she was, it wasn't the hospital room which had become so familiar. Nor was it home. And then the events of the last day caught up with her, and she permitted herself to relax, just a bit—she was stashed away in some bedroom at Wayne Manor, where she had been delivered, like some sort of fragile package, to convalesce.

She shivered suddenly, and drew the duvet more closely around her body. Too late, she realized that the sedative not only would have made her go to sleep, it would have _kept _her asleep. Instead, now she was totally awake, and totally aware. Her circumstances came rushing back to her mind and heart, both of which were rather over-burdened, and she felt the by-now familiar, crushing pain start to press down on her chest. _This was it_—she was out of the hospital, and the only thing now standing between her and the ugly reality of her pathetic life was a week of so of being mothered and smothered by Bruce and Alfred. Beyond that point, she had to venture out, sift through the damage of Safe Haven and the wreckage of her life, and try to figure out where to go from here. And this task seemed entirely beyond her present capabilities. She was exhausted, broken, beaten, and clueless; to add insult to injury, she had no idea how to handle feeling like that. For as long as she could remember, she had been strong—not simply by choice, but by necessity—surviving, making plans, powering through. But her resources had finally run dry. She was tapped out.

The lump in her throat was burning, threatening to choke her. She had to do something—scream, or cry, or try to rip out her own throat. Now that she was finally acknowledging the extent of her grief, and her own inability to handle it, it seemed a mighty thing, a tsunami which threatened to engulf and drown her. The pain of it was exquisite. Her limbs shifted about under the heavy blankets, as though they were attempting to seek respite from the elemental, savage pain that radiated out from her core. But this was a pain that no medicine could cure, and from which there was no immediate escape.

_The darkest hour is just before dawn. _Now, why did that phrase come into her head at that particular moment? Well, it certainly seemed as though this was the darkest point—that time in the early hours when everyone and everything else in the world was asleep and untroubled, ignorant and indifferent to her existence. Now she was alone, in the darkness, with only this crushing loneliness and pain. Her breath hitched raggedly in her chest as the first hot tears rolled down her face and a sob choked in her throat.

Just then was when Annabeth realized that there was another noise in the room beside her own muffled crying. A muted rustling caught her attention, and she instantly stilled herself. But one treacherous sob had other ideas, and escaped before she had a chance to smother it.

"Annabeth?" Bruce's voice was rough from sleep, and he sounded vaguely disoriented. "Are you awake?"

_What the hell was he doing in here? _Annabeth wondered. And then scolded herself for wondering. _It's his home, dumbass. And did you really think he wasn't going to hover? _After a moment, in which she tried desperately to rein in her emotional outburst, she tried to answer. "I'm...yeah, I'm awake."

Another rustling sound, louder this time as Bruce sat up. She had a vague memory of having seen a chair by the bed, just before she had passed out; he must have come in at some point and settled into it. "Bruce, what are you doing here?"

Bruce didn't answer at first. And then, through the darkness, his voice sounded hesitant, even to his own ears. "I felt like I needed to be here."

She wanted to tell him that she didn't need him here, for the love of god, what could he possibly do, after all? That she'd be fine, go back to bed. That his presence wasn't equal to the horror of her current life. She wanted to say all of these things, but those words simply would not make it into her mouth. She was defeated by the darkness, by the lonely emptiness of the predawn hours, and by her own exhaustion, and as a result, the only thing she could say was the honest thing:

"I'm...glad you're here."

Such simple words, yet so heavily laden. Roughly, she brushed the tears off her cheeks and dug the heel of her palm into one eye, then the other. She was thankful that the lights were off, and therefore offered her cover in this moment of weakness.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" His voice was stronger now, as though despite his words, he was growing more confident that he was welcome. She found herself wondering if perhaps he hadn't deliberately left the lights off—the more she knew of him, the more she realized how he embraced the darkness, both within and without. He seemed most comfortable when no one could see him, when he was a remote observer, assessing the situation.

Suddenly, Annabeth remembered that he had asked her a question, and was no doubt expecting an answer. "No. No, you don't need to leave." She weighed her next words carefully before spending them. "I want you to stay. It helps."

She would offer nothing more than this, and he wasn't about to ask. Fear and anxiety had pulled them together originally, but now, strangely, that same fear and anxiety, and grief as well, were now keeping them distanced from each other. And neither of them were ready to breach that distance, or else they didn't know how.

The darkness of the room did not lessen, so her other senses began to fill in the gaps. The faint rustle of clothing that she had heard before now became even louder; she guessed Bruce was shifting in his seat to get more comfortable. Suddenly, it seemed absurd, and she was just too tired and sad to shut up. "There's an entire bed over here. It seems pretty stupid to squish your super-hero self into the smallest chair in the room."

He was quiet for so long that Annabeth began to think that he was going to turn down her suggestion. "Of course, I'd understand if you'd say no. It's not exactly a tempting offer: shot-up, neurotic, infertile female with a family worthy of the Jerry Springer show, saying, 'Hey, billionaire man, come to my bed for a night of passionless comfort."

"Well, when you put it like that..." She heard Bruce rise from his seat, and a moment later, felt him sit down on the edge of the bed. "Are you sure?"

"Let's look at this from a different angle: Even if I asked you to leave my room, would you?"

"Probably not."

"Then you may as well get comfortable."

So he did, lifting up the duvet and sliding underneath it. As he settled in beside her, his low voice tickled into her ear. "Passionless comfort sounds pretty good right now, don't you think?"

Still, he was careful not to touch her. Annabeth noticed this and peered back over her shoulder, even though she couldn't see. "Bruce?"

She didn't need to extrapolate on her question; he understood. "I won't...hurt you, will I, if I put my arms around you?"

"You'll help more than you hurt."

His arms slowly crept up and enfolded her from behind as he pulled her back to him, carefully; she half-suspected he was holding his breath. She felt the tension coiled in his arms. "It's fine, Bruce. You won't hurt me."

Slowly, he relaxed, and Annabeth allowed herself to let go, for a moment, of the misery that had awakened her. "I _am _really glad you're here."

"What were you dreaming about?"

"Sorry?"

"Before you awoke, you were dreaming. What was it about?"

Annabeth wasn't ready to answer him. "How could you tell that I was dreaming?"

"You were mumbling and thrashing about quite a bit. Generally, people who sleep soundly don't indulge in a wrestling match with an invisible opponent. So what was it?"

Annabeth sighed. "It was the same dream as the one I had on the drive here. There was a maze. A dark, winding maze, and I was lost in it. At least, I _felt _like I was lost in it. But Donna and Seth were there, and I was following them. And then...the maze ended in Gotham, right in the middle of the city. Like, in the middle of rush hour on a Friday. And...the Batman was there, in the middle of the city. And they were all telling me that I was home." She paused, then added, "It was the maze, I think, that was bothering me. It was so dark in there, and lonely...but at the same time, once I was in the middle of the city, all I wanted was to be back in the maze."

"Interesting."

"Really? Seems like a garden-variety angst-ridden dream to me."

"No, it's not that. It's that you talked about dreaming about the _Batman, _not _me."_

"Did I? Huh." Annabeth shook her head, just slightly. "No idea why. You're one and the same. Or rather, two halves of the whole, but not mutually exclusive."

This view caught Bruce by surprise. "When did you come to that conclusion?"

He felt her lift her shoulders in a tiny shrug. "I couldn't even begin to tell you. I suppose it's been a gradual process."

There was nothing much more to say to this, not without invoking painful memories of the last few weeks, and Bruce would have faced the Joker a thousand times over before doing this. So he simply stayed silent after this, holding Annabeth, providing the only comfort he could. At any rate, she was no longer crying. And eventually, Bruce's deep, even breathing calmed Annabeth and gently pulled her back into the blissful oblivion of sleep, and only after he was certain Annabeth had fallen back to sleep did Bruce allow himself to do the same.


	52. Chapter 52

The next time Annabeth awoke, it was as though she had moved into an entirely different world from the silent, dark room of the pre-dawn hours. Before, when she had awakened, she had been confused and disoriented, surrounded by a thorough and almost tangible darkness; now there was no question of where she was. Brittle but bright morning sunlight filled the room, glinting, gleaming, and glowing on or off decorative objects of gilt, ceramic, silver, and crystal. The collective effect was bedazzling, even to Annabeth's sleep-crusted eyes.

Of course, something else was different, not just the setting: Bruce was gone.

_Typical._

But she wasn't alone.

"Good morning, Annabeth." Leslie was now sitting in the chair in which Bruce had sat during the nigh. The doctor smiled at Annabeth now, and she found it impossible not to return the expression, however feeble it was in comparison to the doctor's.

"What time is it?"

"Just now nine." Leslie gestured towards the fireplace which was positioned directly across from Annabeth's bed. "There's a clock up there on the mantle."

"There is?" Annabeth squinted for a moment, trying to discern the object to which Leslie had gestured. "You don't mean that pile of twisted, enameled swirly metal, do you?"

"That 'pile of twisted, enameled, swirly metal' happens to be an enamel and gilded clock, an original Czech design by Alphonse Mucha...circa 1913, I believe. I was treated to its entire history not half an hour ago, when Alfred came in to lay the fire. _Don't _call it a pile of twisted metal to his face, if you please—I really don't want to hear about Mucha all over again. Did you know that he died after the Gestapo got a hold of him? Poor fellow."

Annabeth nodded, but she was only half listening. Her gaze was shifting around the room, from one corner to another, taking in all the objects she had missed when she had arrived the previous evening. It was a rather overwhelming room, and the morning light pouring in through the windows only emphasized its glittering, feminine elegance.

"Did Alfred draw back the drapes when he laid the fire?" Annabeth asked with a sudden shrewdness, but she already knew the answer.

Leslie smiled, and it was an expression of equal parts love and indulgence. "I suspect Alfred tries to take advantage of any opportunity for an audience. He's put so much work into re-creating the Manor, and Bruce..." she drifted off, reluctant to speak disparagingly of him, and finished with a mere shrug.

Annabeth understood. For all his wealth and style and ostensible extravagance, Bruce seemed to pay very little heed to his luxurious surroundings. It seemed to be mere trappings—or perhaps _props _was the more appropriate word. Apparently, this was something that even Leslie noticed, but hopefully attributed it to either an entitled indifference to what he had always had, or else a simple, masculine indifference to décor and surroundings, particularly those of a feminine variety.

_Deck the halls in capes of Kevlar, then he might notice, _Annabeth mused to herself as she carefully hoisted herself upright and propped a couple of pillows behind her.

Leslie had resumed the previous thread of conversation. "Anyway, I think this room, in particular, is Alfred's masterpiece."

"Oh?"

"Before the old building burned down, this was the suite for the lady of the house." Seeing the bewilderment on Annabeth's face, Leslie clarified. "Bruce's mother, Martha Wayne—these were her rooms."

"Thomas and Martha Wayne had separate rooms?" God knew, Annabeth was no expert at healthy relationships, but even she could see the flaws in this arrangement. No wonder Bruce was an only child.

"Traditionally, yes, they had separate rooms." Leslie's eyes crinkled with knowing humor. "Thomas Wayne's set of rooms adjoined these. But he always complained of a draft in his room-that much was an obvious fabrication-and that there was a nest of bats, too. So he slept here in Martha's rooms, most of the time, which was just as they both preferred, anyway. Martha liked the Art Nouveau theme, and so she never changed it. And so I think Alfred put his all into re-creating a room that Martha would have loved."

Leslie paused at this point, and this gave both of them the chance to gaze once more around the room. Annabeth, in particular, drank in the details—every silver candlestick, every crystal bowl, every enamel vase, every floral swirl now seemed like something completely different—not another excessive display of wealth, and grandeur, but rather an effective and loving tribute. But..."

"So why isn't this Bruce's room?"

Leslie didn't bother to restrain her rather rude-sounding snort. "The man may come off as something of a fop, but really—can you imagine him living in this room?"

Annabeth smoothed down the duvet cover—it was a deep shade of lavender, with pale, silvery-lilac paisley swirls—and then her eye happened to fall on an ornate vase, which she suspected served no other purpose than to intimidate her into coming nowhere close to it. "It does vaguely resemble a Barbie dream house, I suppose."

"Even if he could get past that, I suspect it's difficult for Bruce. This was Thomas and Martha's suite of rooms, and it still feels like Martha, especially. I fear that Alfred outdid himself."

"Where _is _Bruce, anyway?"

"He headed into the city first thing this morning—he said his day was packed, but that he'd try to be back by mid-afternoon. He didn't think it was a good idea to be out on the roads tonight."

"Why?"

"It's New Year's Eve, Annabeth." Leslie didn't seem at all surprised that Annabeth had lost track of time. "I suppose it's hard to keep the time straight when you're bundled away in a hospital for days on end."

"Yes. Time is measured in the intervals that lapse between the delivery of shitty food and the injection and administration of mood-altering drugs." Abruptly Annabeth was seized with a surge of gratitude. "God, it's so good to be out of there! Thank you so much for springing me."

"Even if you're sequestered in Barbie's Dream House?" Leslie was pleased by Annabeth's slight lift of spirits, and couldn't resist teasing her a little.

"Even if." Annabeth's grin was self-deprecating. "And to be honest, this is probably the kind of princess bedroom I dreamed of when I was a kid."

During the many long, anxious hours they had spent in the hospital, Alfred had filled Leslie in on many of the key points of Annabeth's past, and so Leslie had enough information and good sense to pass over the reference to Annabeth's childhood. Instead, she steered the conversation towards a more pressing issue. "If you're awake enough now, I'd like to check you over, take your vitals."

"I'm awake enough."

As Leslie again went through the procedures of ensuring that death was not imminent, Annabeth passively submitted, not paying much attention as the thermometer was thrust into her mouth, the blood pressure cuff was velcroed around her arm, and the cold stethoscope was pressed against first her back, and then her chest. Leslie's hands were gentle and her movements deft as she felt Annabeth's glands, took her pulse, and briefly examined the entry wound and surgery scar. All of this, Annabeth was quite used to by now—she had begun to feel like the interminable days were scheduled around these routine checks. Trickier was the round of questions that Leslie fired at her after the physical exam—how was she sleeping? How was the pain? How was her mental outlook? This required a little more attention, but she had learned enough to be both terse and honest in her answers, and that generally satisfied Leslie. Then she could return to her inattentive indifference. It was almost pleasant, this passivity—she had only to be still, follow instructions, let others make the big decisions, and she could avoid the frightening prospect of various painful facts. It wasn't Annabeth's usual way, of course, but these were unusual times. For now, she was most content to float along, buoyed and steered by the efforts and decisions of others.

It was at this point that Annabeth realized that Leslie was looking her way expectantly, and that she must have asked a question. "Sorry?"

"I asked, what did you want to do next?" Leslie had packed away her medical equipment; obviously the exam was done.

"Avoid making decisions," Annabeth answered with a trace of her former bluntness. "At least for now."

This response did not appear to take Leslie by surprise, but nor did it please her. "I understand what you're going through, Annabeth—"

The flare of anger that ignited within Annabeth was a brief and startling departure from her previous malaise. "You don't know a fucking _thing _about what I'm going through." She hissed these words with equal parts outrage and indignation. "When was the last time you lost a baby and your only chance at a family?"

Rather than taking offense, Leslie _did _seem pleased with this. _There's still some fire in there, despite everything, _she noted in satisfaction. _She's tough as nails, whether or not she knows it. _"Perhaps I didn't phrase it right—I can completely grasp what you've gone through, what you're going through. I can imagine, I can sympathize. But you're right. I don't _know. _I haven't experienced it. But I've witnessed grief and trauma—some much worse than yours—and so I can understand. And I can understand that while your circumstances are unique—your pain isn't."

Annabeth blinked, temporarily taken aback by this bluntness. "Christ. You're not a professional grief counselor, are you?"

"Good lord, no. I'd go out of business in a month." Leslie smiled to soften her previous words, and the moment of tension passed. "My point is this—you're grieving, and that's healthy. But you will need to let yourself feel whatever it is you need to feel, and react how you need to. Don't fight it. But bear this in mind, too—you need to take care of your body, too, in order for you to heal."

The compassion and concern in Leslie's eyes added weight to her words, and Annabeth felt guilty for her outburst. "Sorry," she muttered, ducking her head. "Guess it's not politic to antagonize the person whose responsibility it is to heal you."

"Not particularly politic, no." Leslie smiled encouragingly, relieved that they had reached a more pleasant footing. "But not uncommon, either. I've seen plenty worse. Grief is horrific—but more pervasive than most of us could imagine. There's so much loss, especially in this city," she added, and amazingly, there was no bitterness in her voice, only resignation. "You see it again and again, as a doctor in this city...and then sometimes you experience it firsthand."

Not even Annabeth was this obtuse. "Bruce's parents."

"Tom and Marty, yes." Again, the resignation in Leslie's voice. "Tom was one of my first friends when I moved to Gotham. We volunteered at the same health clinic...would you believe, I didn't even know who the Waynes _were?" _Leslie smiled at her own ignorance. "Tom and I had similar approaches to work, and similar research interests, and we hit it off right away. He was younger than me by a fair bit, of course—" here a blush began to creep into Leslie's cheeks—"and it was fairly easy to be dazzled by him. But once I met Marty, and their son, it was impossible not to love them all equally."

Annabeth tried to imagine the charmed, charming Wayne family in the years before the violence which had destroyed them.

"Marty was..." Leslie paused, searching for the right words, "She was one of those perfect society hostesses. I gather that, before her marriage to Tom, she had been a bit of a high-flying party girl, but she settled down quite well and took to marriage. And all that socializing served her well—she could set anyone at their ease, converse, joke, draw them out, whatever it took. She had a knack for assessing her audience and judging what they needed and wanted to a nicety." Abruptly, Leslie laughed, perhaps at some memory. "Tom figured that out quickly, and they ruthlessly exploited it, especially when they were involved in some sort of philanthropy or charity or fund-raising event. Poor rich folks, I almost felt bad for them—they'd go home several thousand dollars lighter, but yet feeling like a million dollars. Marty Wayne could make you feel _that _special."

Once more, Annabeth took in her gilded surroundings. More and more, the room seemed to fit Martha Wayne's personality. _A royal room for the Queen of Gotham Society. _Which she, Annabeth, decidedly was not.

"Now Tom, he was a bit more serious than Marty," Leslie went on, caught up in her memories and oblivious to Annabeth's insecurity. "You know, raised as the sole Wayne heir, and all that. He only spent the most cursory attention to the empire—all of his love and energy and dedication went to his work as a doctor, to his Foundation, to Gotham, or else to his family. But in that, he and Marty were absolutely united."

"You make it sound like they had a very solid partnership."

"They did, oh, they did. But they could both be so stubborn, too. Dogmatic, intransigent even, when it came to what they believed. Committed, unyielding, even unforgiving—they few times they fought that I know of—lord, it could drag on for a while. More than once, Alfred was something of a go-between for them." Shaking her head and chuckling, Leslie still seemed able to recall this clearly, all these many years later. "I had so much in common with both of them; Tom and I shared a professional vision, but I found in Marty a true female friend. Similar tastes, similar outlooks, even similar mannerisms after a while." Leslie paused with a smile that was simultaneously sad and sweet. "It got to the point where I'd turn up at the Manor on my day off, and Marty would stroll down the staircase and we'd both see that we were wearing similar outfits."

Unconsciously, Annabeth nodded, and then caught herself doing so. How many times had she and Janey done the same thing? She had lost count when she had consistently lost thumb-wars to Janey as a way to decide who would be the one to change into something else

"And then, of course, there was Bruce. Their only child, and such a boy he was. Smart, and _so _self-contained. A bit of a loner, really...Rachel seemed to be the one close friend he had, especially...well, especially after Tom and Marty died."

"I was so young then...just Bruce's age, or thereabouts." Annabeth mused on this for a moment, softly, almost to herself. "I don't remember when it happened." Of course not—even then, she had been too preoccupied with own her fierce struggle to stay afloat in the wild, unpredictable currents of Gotham's foster care system.

"It was absolutely horrible," Leslie said flatly. "I think for Bruce it was—" Leslie suddenly cut herself off, and bit her lip as if to keep the words from coming out.

"What? What's wrong?"

Sheepishly, Leslie shrugged. "Just have to remember every now and then that you're the patient—"

"—and Bruce is the old family friend." Annabeth grasped the source of Leslie's hesitation immediately, and understood. "And to further complicate matters, you're probably wondering just what the hell I am, exactly, to Bruce? I'm willing to bet that wasn't something he bothered to clarify with you."

"No."

"That's fine—and anyway, I don't think either of us have a clue." Annabeth was dimly surprised with herself; why on earth was she sharing this? It was a morning of revelations and unexpected confidences.

"It doesn't matter what you are to each other, not now. What _does _matter now is how you two help each other through this."

Difficult though it was, Annabeth paused to recall the last ten days. Parts of it were fairly murky, recalled through a haze of pain and pain-killers, but the one thing that _did _stand out in her memory was the constant, strangely comforting presence of Bruce. If he hadn't been there, he had made sure that Alfred was. He had watched over her, raised hell on her behalf, tried to cajole her into eating, talking, resting; and sometimes he had simply remained there, an often silent witness to her recovery. "He's been an incredible support," she acknowledged, and as soon as she spoke the words, the powerful truth of them struck her. "He's been—a rock. I always thought that was such a _stupid _analogy until this happened. But not now. Now I see just how wonderful a rock can be—it doesn't shift or move. It shelters, it endures, it's completely reliable and strong. It never makes you guess. It never makes you think you _need _to guess."

Leslie quirked an eyebrow. "Not really the Bruce that most people see—not even the Bruce that I see, most of the time. I have to say, I was surprised seeing how he was this week. It was much different than how he's been the last few years. He's a different person around you, it seems."

Aware now of the treacherously thin ice upon which she now skated, Annabeth tried to gently steer the subject towards something a little safer. "Well, anyway, I don't know how much I'm helping _him _through this." Her attention shifted momentarily away from her own sorrow as she pondered the loss through Bruce's eyes. How much was he hurting? Or, good god, what if he was _blaming _himself? It was impossible to know just then, but she would have to find out. "I don't know that I'm helping him at all."

"Perhaps, in allowing him to take care of you, you _are _helping him." Leslie took in Annabeth's thin, frail form, now slightly hunched over as she sat on the edge of the bed, and felt a surge of protectiveness course through her. Very sensibly, she tamped this down. Annabeth had just found and lost her birth mother in a very cruel way, and probably wouldn't take kindly at misplaced mothering attempts by a childless doctor. "Now," she said, making the decision to switch from exchanging cozy family gossip to more business-like concerns, and finding herself on firmer footing as a result, "How about you tell me what you want to do now?" She added a prompt to help Annabeth out. "Are you hungry?"

Hungry? Annabeth reached into the depths of her brain—when was the last time she had felt hunger? In the hospital, she had dutifully eaten at least some of the food that they had brought to her, but that was more because of the fact that there was always someone there, beadily watching her, preparing to nag her if she didn't eat enough. But hunger? Didn't really register.

"Annabeth?" Leslie placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Suddenly, Annabeth snapped to attention and realized that she had spent far too much time ruminating over a simple yes or no question. _Pull it together, woman. It's not a philosophical quandary. _"Yeah, some food would be good."

This response satisfied Leslie. "Why don't you go ahead and take a shower, and I'll have Alfred bring up some breakfast for you?" Without awaiting further response from Annabeth, Leslie headed towards the bedside table, where there sat an old-fashioned phone. Annabeth briefly wondered if it had ever spent time in a Parisian brothel, but then was distracted from this as she watched Leslie pick up the phone. Curiously, she dialed no numbers, but rather simply waited for a moment, then began speaking. "Alfred? It's Leslie...she woke up a little bit ago, and she'd like some breakfast." She paused, listening to something on the other end, and then smiled as she hung up. Seeing Annabeth's surprised expression, she extrapolated. "Your room has its own line, and Alfred has programmed this phone so that if you simply pick it up and wait, it will ring through to his cell phone. A combination of old and new. Now—go shower. I'm guessing you'll want to get the hospital feel out of you for good. Bathroom is through the door next to the fireplace. "

Obediently, Annabeth turned to the direction to which Leslie had gestured. There was a door flanking both sides of the fireplace. "Which door—"

"To the right."

In the blissful privacy of the bathroom, under the pounding, steamy water which assailed her from the showerhead, Annabeth tried to process all the things she had learned just since awakening. It was a strange shift in reality—when considered in the light of day, the previous night with Bruce seemed like something from a dream. _"He's gone into the city," _Leslie had said, her face betraying no suspicion or anything which indicated a knowledge of where Bruce had spent his early morning hours. Lord, that man had a knack for disappearing.

_Enough. _Annabeth reached through the steam and groped along a ledge built into the wall; she had seen a line of bottles there when she had stepped into the shower. Her hands grasped one of these bottles, and she pulled it towards her, fully expecting the label to boast something like a shampoo formula boasting extract of sea-horse intestines, or some equally crackpot, pseudo-chi-chi claim. What she saw instead caught her off-guard. She held in her hands a bottle of her favorite shampoo—not her everyday drug store variety, but rather the _good _stuff from the salon, that she only indulged in once a week. She squinted and saw her favorite conditioner, too.

_Odd._

She emerged from the shower feeling marginally more human, and as she began to towel off, her eye caught a neat stack of clothes that someone had, at some point, stacked on the counter by the sink. With some trepidation, she glanced over the items, but strangely, everything was to her preference, just like the shampoo—right down to the yoga pants she favored when puttering about at home.

It was as she was carefully working her way into these pants—her bullet wound scar was still in the angry, sore stage—that she happened to draw near the door leading back into the bedroom. Despite the aged, thick wood of the door, Alfred and Leslie's words floated through fairly audibly.

"Still depressed...moody. And passive...doesn't like making any decisions."

"...take time, I imagine."

"comes and goes...probably...more severe...keep an eye out."

"I am rather _vexed _with Master Wayne—honestly, what was he thinking? Business on New Year's?" Alfred's voice grew clearer as he moved closer to the bathroom door, and so did Leslie's.

"I agree, Alfred, it would be helpful if he were here. I suspect that Annabeth has not embraced the worst of the grief yet...I don't know if she's cried, even once. And when she does, it won't be pretty."

"It certainly cannot be healthy for her." For once, Alfred actually sounded fretful.

"I've yet to meet anyone who's really _healthy-" _Leslie put sarcastic emphasis on this word- "in how they handle their grief and their issues. As you and I both well know."

Annabeth went very still, the towel she had been using to dry her hair falling from her suddenly-ice-cold hands. She imagined Alfred having a similar reaction_, _but without seeing his face, it was impossible to tell. However, did his voice sound a little forced as he asked, "My dear Leslie, what on earth do you mean?"

"I mean that neither you nor Bruce have moved on."

This was dangerous ground, even for an old friend like Leslie, but regardless, she plunged on. "I've always worried for you, living here, but especially when Bruce spent all those years drifting the damned globe. But then, at least I saw plenty of you, so I didn't have a chance to worry too much. I thought that you seemed to handle things all right, and you certainly sought out my company, so you couldn't be too broken."

"And now?"

Even Annabeth, as obtuse as she normally was when it came to the nuances of human interactions, could hazard a guess where this conversation was going, and she cringed in sympathy. _Oh god, Alfred. Leave—leave now. For the sake of everyone, get out!_

"And now I hardly ever see you. Bruce turned up from out of nowhere—thank god, he was alive—and then all of a sudden, I never see either of you. But _especially _you. What the hell happened—was it something I did?"

So Annabeth's leap of intuition was true. She was equally pleased with her own perceptiveness and appalled, too. God, did love suck so bad at every stage of life? One would hope that, by the time one hit their sixties, they would be beyond the ridiculousness of it. Apparently, no such luck. This was not a cheerful chain of thoughts, so Annabeth turned her attention back to the conversation.

Alfred _had _to be feeling awkward right now. Yet his voice never betrayed it. "Leslie! Don't be absurd! There was nothing you did wrong. Nothing. It's not you at all, it's-"

Here Annabeth cringed again. _He can't be about to say it! Even I know better._

"-it's Master Bruce."

_Genius. He threw Bruce under the bus! Nice! Low but nice. "It's not you, it's my superhero billionaire employer who needs me to hold his hand at every step. That's why I'm commitmentphobic." I'll have to remember that one._

"That's just what I mean, Alfred! Bruce returns out of the blue, and suddenly the only times I ever see you, you're chained to his side, or else doing his bidding!" Leslie's voice was rising in uncharacteristic frustration.

"Master Wayne needs me-"

"No, Alfred. He's an adult. So let him grow up. You did right by Tom and Marty—you couldn't have done a better job with Bruce when he was a child. So it's not healthy, devoting your life to Bruce when he's an adult. You need to let him go—let _them _go."

It suddenly registered in Annabeth's brain that she was shamelessly eavesdropping on a very private conversation which no longer had nothing to do with her. Following hard on the heels of this guilty thought was the realization that she had spent the last few minutes thinking about something other than her own misery. _Other peoples' misery provides a great distraction. Duly noted._

Alfred and Leslie's voices faded away; they must have moved further away from the bathroom door. Perhaps they had reached some sort of détente—no, Annabeth heard the sound of a door closing. So who had left?

Leslie must have been the one who decided to make the exit, for Alfred was standing in the middle of the room when Annabeth emerged from the bathroom. His back was to her, and he appeared to be staring off into space, lost in thought.

"Good morning, Alfred."

"Ah!" Alfred turned around and greeted Annabeth with a distracted smile. "Good morning, Miss Annabeth." He crossed the room, over to the large window. Before it, positioned no doubt to take in the view, was a small round table; while Annabeth had been showering, Alfred must have been hard at work. An elaborate, single place setting had been laid out, and accompanying this were several silver serving platters. It all seemed rather excessive to Annabeth, but she knew Alfred well enough to know that he didn't do anything by halves.

She settled herself into the seat that Alfred pulled out for her, and as she did, she couldn't resist asking, "Where's Leslie?"

"She had to make a business call..." Alfred's eyes suddenly narrowed. Her innocent tone of voice hadn't fooled him for long, and the smirk that she didn't wipe away quickly enough must have confirmed what he suspected. " Oh, dear. You heard our conversation, I suppose?"

"You suppose correctly." Annabeth watched as Alfred lifted the lid to one of the silver platters and began spooning delicious-smelling food onto the delicate china plate which sat before her. "I hate to say it, Alfred, but even _I _saw where that conversation was going. Why the hell didn't you take off?"

Alfred took his time in answering. He poured a cup of amber-colored, steaming tea and passed it to Annabeth, and only then did he tell her. "You heard the cryptic remark about how Master Wayne and I handle our grief. Perhaps it's paranoid, but I needed to find out what she meant. I needed to make sure she didn't know anything. Drink you tea, dear."

Obediently, she took a sip, but then put down the cup and saucer. "Wow...that's _incredible _dedication to Bruce."

"I don't see it quite that way. Or at least, it's just as much a dedication to his goals and ideas as it is a dedication to him, personally." He had finished heaping her plate with food. "Tuck in."

Food was now the last thing on Annabeth's mind. "So you _do _believe in what Bruce does?"

"Of course!" Alfred was too well-mannered to take offense, but his voice nonetheless betrayed him. "And I believe in who Master Bruce_is. _From the beginning, the utter lucidity of his plan was enough to convince me. And even if that were not enough, watching him do what he does, watching him make the choices that he does, watching how pure his dedication is—_that _is enough."

She never would have thought it possible, but Alfred's bearing became even more proud and erect as he delivered this pronouncement. "Bruce is lucky to have you, Alfred." Then, to prevent herself from saying anything else, she looked down at her plate and attempted to tackle the breakfast.

It was obvious that Alfred had prepared nothing short of a feast. All manner of tempting foods had been placed in front of her—a golden omelet, oozing cheese and mushrooms and accompanied by fat, juicy sausages. A bowl of fruit with an excess of berries and kiwi—all that fruit that she had once complained to Janey was under-represented in generic, grocery store-arranged concoctons. There was even a pitcher of orange juice, pulpy, just the way she loved it.

A suspicion began to take root in Annabeth's mind. She peeped into a linen-covered basket right by the juice. Yes, just as she thought—it contained her favorite breakfast bread: fluffy, decadent croissants.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Miss Annabeth?"

She recalled her favorite toiletries in the bathroom, and decided she wasn't imagining this. "How is it that everything here seems to be tailored to my unvoiced specifications?"

"Master Wayne and I were both most concerned that you should feel welcome, and we wanted to make sure you felt utterly comfortable, and wanted for nothing. To this end, your friend Janey was most helpful."

"I bet she was. You two probably earned some badly-needed points with her, too." Still, Annabeth was touched. "You put a lot of thought and effort into this." And the best way she could appreciate it, she knew, was to make a show of enjoying it. She began to eat, and after a moment, had to admit that this was not much of a sacrifice. A week of Alfred's cooking, and her appetite would return. Still...she paused for a moment, as curiosity overcame tact. "So, you and Leslie, huh?"

To his credit, Alfred became neither defensive nor evasive. "Master Wayne was gone nigh on ten years, Miss Annabeth. The Manor could be a lonely place. I had no idea whether he was alive or dead...I only had my own faith that he was safe, and my own efforts to keep myself from going mad. So yes, I did spend much of my time in Leslie's company."

"But not now?"

"But not now."

Annabeth took another bite of her delicious breakfast, and the time it took to chew gave her a chance to formulate her next thought. When it came out, it took Alfred off-guard. "That's silly, Alfred. Even Bruce has an occasional dalliance. So why not you?" She didn't know this, actually—but Bruce _couldn't_ have gotten his playboy reputation by mere acting. As her predicament of the last six weeks was rather potent proof.

"I don't _dally." _Now Alfred actually did look offended, but his mild manner immediately asserted itself. "And to be fair, my dear, Master Bruce has been entangled with you since early September—almost four months. Scarcely a dalliance." He paused, and then with a mischievous smile that robbed the following words of their sting, added, "It would be considered more of a prolonged fling."

**_**Even on New Year's Eve, business didn't stop within Wayne Tower. But things _did _slow down considerably in the last ten days of the year, and the staff was reduced to a third of its usual size. Generous though Wayne was with vacation time—he had actually gotten personally involved with changing the policy, right after his return to Gotham—he was still a businessman, hence the presence of one-third the usual number of employees to at least keep the bare-bones running. Each year, every department rotated the "One-third duty" as it had come to be known, so no one poor sap got stuck working the Christmas holiday every year. And even if they did, they were handsomely rewarded: time-and-a-half pay for each of the ten days that they worked, as well as several catered lunches and surprise employee appreciation gifts.

In addition to generating some very satisfied employees, this program also engendered a strong loyalty within the corporation, as well as a sentimental love for Bruce Wayne. He may have been a clueless playboy, his involvement in the corporation his rich man's folly, but by god, the workers benefited. And he was harmless enough, really—he usually had a knack for bumbling through the building at odd hours, all affability and absent-mindedness. He was the "grunt workers"' unofficial mascot.

Of course, none of these pleasant reasons were why Bruce had gone to bat for the "one-third duty." He had done it because the Empire could easily afford it, and because it was both fair and generous—but more to the point, it meant that there were two-thirds less people around Wayne Towers, and that meant he was two-thirds more likely to be unobserved in the act of getting things done.

This Christmas season had been a little bit difficult. Most of his time had been spent with Annabeth at the hospital; as a result, work had begun to pile up at the office, even with Jessica Waterhouse's hard work and long hours. So finally, after getting Annabeth settled at the Manor, Bruce had reluctantly left her that morning and ventured into the City. As he guided his car through the almost-empty roads, he felt his spirits actually beginning to lift a little bit. Work, whether in the Batsuit or the business suit, was always a welcome thing. And really, it was New Year's Eve—even better! The one-third was more likely to be one-quarter, he could get things done, perhaps head down to R&D and Applied Sciences...

His good mood deflated when he stepped off the elevators and onto the 85th floor. He had expected the entire floor to be devoid of all human life—and yet there was Waterhouse, hard at work as usual.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne." Jessica Waterhouse barely glanced away from her monitor. "Managed to squeeze past all of the toadies?"

"They were toadying elsewhere, I think." Bruce sauntered over to her and sat on the edge of her desk. "What are you doing here—aren't you off the one-third duty this year?"

"I'm voluntarily exempt from the one-third duty, Mr. Wayne. Would you like some water, or coffee?" All of this time, Jessica kept right on typing. No, that wasn't quite correct—while still typing with one hand, she reached over with the other and pointedly tugged at the files he was sitting on. "Mr. Fox is in Pennsylvania with his family, and since you were also out this week, I thought it prudent to manage the office in your absence." She glanced over at him finally. "I took the liberty of opening and recording the various correspondence that looked personal—Christmas cards, mainly, but a few sympathy cards, too."

"Sympathy cards?"

"It appears as though some have read the tabloid article about the information that sleazy doctor leaked." Typical, that Jessica's minimal editorializing was limited to the doctor who betrayed Bruce and Annabeth, and not Bruce for essentially knocking up Annabeth. Bruce made a mental note to give her another salary increase. "I'm sorry for what you've been through, sir. Now, did you wish for me to assist you today, or will you be handling your own workload?" That was her tactful way of asking him if he wished to be left alone.

"For the moment, I'm okay with being on my own. Let's have a meeting around 1 PM, discuss any high priorities?"

"Fine by me." Jessica went back to typing, but paused again to watch as Bruce began to amble away. "Sir? That's Mr. Fox's office. Yours is next door."

"So it is." Bruce waved vaguely and went through the door to which she pointed.

Hour after hour passed, and Bruce slowly began to re-orient himself. It was sometimes difficult, playing the idiot playboy while secretly and simultaneously running and guiding the company to greater success. Lucius helped with that, immeasurably; he could often drive Bruce's agenda and paint it as his own. And in her own way, Waterhouse did the same thing. She knew there was more to her bosses than the dynamic they projected to the public, but Bruce suspected she simply didn't give a damn. She was like a bulldog, Waterhouse—she'd hang on to the job and get it done. That was all that mattered.

_Actually, maybe less like a bulldog, more like a brainwashed soldier. _Shuddering at this thought, Bruce began to sort through the documents and papers on his desk.

By noon, Bruce was caught up. By 1 PM, he was more than ready for his meeting with Jessica. And by 2 PM, he had completely lost all ability to pay attention. As Jessica went on about various departments and projects, Bruce found his mind wandering far away—back to the Manor, in fact. How was Annabeth holding up? He felt a twinge of guilt, leaving her so early like that, but there would never be a better time to re-emerge into the business world. He had wanted to do it as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.

"Mr. Wayne?"

Jessica was looking at him with a sort of subdued curiosity. "Everything alright, Mr. Wayne?"

"Everything's fine, Ms. Waterhouse." Bruce made up his mind. "Is there anything else here that's utterly pressing, or can I skedaddle? I think there was some sort of thing I was supposed to go to this evening, something with Chippendale models. What's a Chippendale, anyway?"

"Haven't a clue. I can look it up, if you want. But no, everything's fine; I'll manage quite well in your absence."

That was his dismissal, and Bruce liked Waterhouse well enough to oblige her. Still... "You won't stay too late, will you?" he asked as he lingered by the elevator.

"Not too late, no." Jessica felt no need to share the fact that she and her partner had cooked up some particularly amorous ways to bring in the New Year. "Happy New Year, sir."

"Same to you, Wa—Ms. Waterhouse."


	53. Chapter 53

It was not yet quite 4 PM when Bruce finally made it back to the Manor, but the sun was already beginning to set, bringing an end to the short winter day. As he guided his car into the underground garage, he briefly imagined Alfred, lighting the fires in the various rooms, even the ones that wouldn't be used. _The man must be in heaven right now, entertaining guests._

Which of course brought him to thoughts of Annabeth. He felt a stab of guilt at leaving her to her own devices, but he couldn't deny, also, the sense of satisfaction that was underlying it all. It felt _good, _being back, working at Wayne Enterprises. Anyway, Alfred had sent him texts throughout the day, keeping him updated, and this alleviated his sense of guilt, somewhat.

Alfred's helpful texts were what directed him through the still dark and empty-feeling Manor when he emerged from the garage. He passed through the front hall, and made a beeline straight for the study. _The _study. Odd place to choose when trying to pass a quiet afternoon at the Manor, but then, it _was _Annabeth. She could always surprise.

And yet the scene was not particularly surprising: when Bruce entered the study, he was confronted by a view of Annabeth, curled up on one of the couches, covered with a soft mohair throw. She appeared to be sleeping. She wasn't alone in the room, however; Leslie was settled in an armchair, engrossed in what appeared to be an 1858 edition of _Anatomy Descriptive and Surgical. _Not too far away, Alfred stood at a side table, in the process of setting down a tea pot.

"Why on earth are you all in here?" Bruce demanded as he shed his coat and carelessly slung it over the back of a chaise. "Geez, Annabeth." He grimaced apologetically to Leslie as she raised a shushing finger to her lips. "Why the hell are you guys in this room?"

"Not like there's any other comfortable social room in the house, Bruce," Annabeth said, her voice slightly muffled by a cushion. "Did you, like, _forbid _Alfred from buying any furniture from the twenty-first century?"

"Somehow Ikea didn't have quite the style that would fit in with the Manor." Bruce looked askance to Alfred, who made his way over.

"She wouldn't wait anywhere else," Alfred muttered. "I think she felt closest to you here." He didn't say any more, as Leslie was right there, and blissfully oblivious, but there was no mistaking the hooded look he gave Bruce. He jerked his head towards the door, and Bruce took that as his cue to leave the study for a private conference. Alfred, and then Leslie, followed behind him. Once Alfred had closed the door, they spoke a little more freely.

"How is she?" Bruce asked, bypassing the normal social niceties without even the slightest thought. "What was she like today?"

"Physically, good." Leslie felt that the doctor's opinion was the first priority. "She's in some discomfort, but it's fading daily. Vitals are strong and healthy. But she's depressed. Lethargic. Passive. All completely normal, incidentally, but she'll have to move beyond that."

Alfred could only offer a little bit more. "She's eaten twice today. I took her on a little bit of a tour—showed her the guest wing, and the dining room, and the kitchens. Even the chapel."

"You showed her the _chapel?" _It was impossible for Bruce to keep the amusement out of his voice. "What'd you go and do a thing like that for?" He didn't need to even bother asking, however. Alfred was proud of the little chapel—a replica of the original, except that this one bore stained glass from an old condemned Gotham City cathedral. Back in their day, the Wayne family had been strong in their Episcopalian faith, but Bruce hadn't set foot inside the new chapel since re-constructing the house...and to be honest with himself, he hadn't been there since a long time before that. Possibly, he had been twelve when last he had contemplated his family's deity.

"She wanted to see the Manor," Alfred said in explanation. "No reason not to show her. And I'm beginning to wonder if a little spiritual comfort isn't unwelcome. She's so withdrawn...seems a little lost." His tone implied something else that went unstated: _Much like someone else I know._

"Hmmm." Bruce knew he should go in to her, keep her company for a while. In fact, he had known it, and wanted to do it, all day, but now that he could—now that doctors and nurses were no longer swarming around Annabeth hour after hour, now that he was no longer trying to do battle with the most arrogant of them, now that there weren't an endless number of disasters claiming his attention—he found himself suddenly reluctant. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that of all the skills he possessed, sustaining healthy relationships with normal interactions did not number among them. "I'll keep her company for a while. Give her a concentrated dose of the Wayne family charm—" he grinned at Leslie, who rolled her eyes. "Sound good to you?"

"I _could _get started on supper," Alfred mused. His eyes suddenly lit up with the flame of inspiration. "It _is _New Year's, after all; why don't I throw together something special?"

"Whatever keeps you busy, Alfred." Bruce glanced over at Leslie. "Will you be alright, left to your own devices for awhile?"

"Quite alright, Bruce." Leslie studied him for a moment, seeming to search for something. What was it? Sincerity? Concern? Whatever she wanted, she must have found it, for she smiled reassuringly. "I need to check my email anyway, and work on a journal article. I'll be in my rooms if you need me...and...well, just remember. This is a difficult time for both of you. Be gentle. Don't stop her from feeling how she needs to feel."

_Strange._ It was as if Leslie had tapped into his own misgivings, and understood his hesitation. Having imparted this undeniably sound advice, Leslie took her leave. Bruce was too preoccupied to notice that she studiously avoided looking at Alfred as she hurried off. Alfred, for his part, was doing the same. Before he headed down to the kitchens, he offered one more piece of information. "When I took her on the tour, Master Wayne, I didn't show her _everything."_

"You left the surprise for me?" Bruce guessed. "Wonderful. That should provide us with a bit of a distraction."

"I imagine you two can think of more," Alfred said. Bruce couldn't decide if he was being suggestive or simply enigmatic, but his guess would be the latter. Being suggestive was simply too vulgar for Alfred.

Back in the study, Annabeth raised her head expectantly as Bruce entered again, alone. "Where are Alfred and Leslie?"

"Not here," he said shortly. He stood in the middle of the room, uncertain for a moment. "Would you mind coming with me? I want to show you something."

She was content enough to follow his request, and allowed him to help her up from the sofa. "Is this when you show me more of the batcave?"

This request surprised him. "No...I hadn't planned on it. Did you want to see it again?"

With a noncommittal shrug, Annabeth answered simply, "I wouldn't mind."

This was an interesting thought to ponder, but not at present. "Maybe later...now, I want to take you upstairs."

With a gentle arm around her shoulders, half-prodding her along, half-supporting, Bruce walked her slowly back up the stairs and back to her suite. Once inside, he smiled. "Everything to your liking?"

"Sure." Annabeth was a little confused. "Bruce, I've already seen this room. It's where I'm staying, remember?"

Bruce merely said, "Follow me." He headed towards the door to the left of the fireplace and opened it, swinging it inward. "Come on."

She obeyed, more out of simply a passive indifference than any actual interest. Bruce followed behind her as she passed through the door, and then almost bumped into her as she came to an abrupt halt.

"My god."

From one end of the room to the other, Annabeth's eyes swiveled, never coming to rest, as they tried to take in all that surrounded her. As far as she could see, the small room in which they stood had once been a sitting room, as luxuriously appointed as any of the other spaces in the Manor. But what made this room stand out was the utter incongruity of its contents: accompanying the antique luxuries that furnished the room was a shrine to a hospital gift shop. Every spare inch of desk-top, table-top, book shelf, and cabinet space was crammed full of flowers. Baskets and vases and pots of flowers, arrangements of every color, type, and scent imaginable. Upon closer inspection, Annabeth could see that it was not just flowers, either: here and there, a helium balloon floated, or a stuffed animal stood sentry.

"They've been flooding the hospital since Percival shot you." Bruce said behind her. "There was so much that the nurses just kept everything in a separate room, and Janey would send them home with Alfred each night. Old clients from Safe Haven; the Y where you volunteer; the Library; some of the other shelters in the City; the Winstons, some of the people you met through me...they all sent something. I thought it would be a nice way to make your office more welcoming."

Overwhelmed though she was by this immense outpouring of love and kindness, Annabeth still had enough presence of mind to be confused. "My office?"

Bruce's expression and shrug were both sheepish but genuine. "Technically, it's a sitting room that joins the master suites," he explained. He pointed towards a door on the opposite side of the room. "That leads through to my room. Anyway, I know you're going to want to get back to work on Safe Haven, and in the meantime, you need a base of operations. So we made this into your study for a while."

It was only then that Annabeth began to observe certain details that she had previously overlooked, overwhelmed as she had been. Her beloved laptop had been carefully placed on top of a massive desk, and sitting by the laptop was what appeared to be a multi-line phone. Several boxes of files were stacked on the floor by the desk. On a nearby side table, a fax machine had been set up.

"All calls to Safe Haven will be routed here, as of tomorrow," Bruce told her. "Maya sent over your work planner and calendar, too, and she wanted me to tell you she'll come out here to work with you as soon as you're ready. And now might not be the best time to mention it, but Commissioner Gordon wants to come out as well, along with the District Attorney...and some of the Feds. They're going to start taking your statements for the trial."

"The trial?" Annabeth repeated.

"Seth Percival." Bruce's voice had gone lower, harsher. "Among other things, he's being charged with attempted murder. Not to mention all the racketeering, extortion, and trafficking charges, plus god only knows what else that they'll dig up. The more they investigate, the deeper he gets in the Arrows. The man was a classic Gotham scumbag."

There was really nothing much to say to this, so Annabeth said nothing. And after a moment, Bruce changed the subject, at least slightly.

"There's someone in particular that wants to get a hold of you." He paused, weighing the words. "An attorney by the name of Robert Lorta. He's been calling here, calling the hospital. He...handled Donna Drake's affairs. I figured this would be a good place to start working out some of these affairs."

Annabeth continued to gaze around the room, contemplating the kindness and warm thoughts of the many people she didn't even know cared, and also the trouble and care Bruce had obviously taken to make her feel welcome. When had that ever happened before? Certainly not at any of her foster homes. The only thing that came close was when she began to work at Safe Haven. Donna and Maya had done what they could to make her office welcoming and cheerful. Now, considering the source, even that seemed to be rather tainted.

_Dammit. _Just like that, her mind had happened upon the subject that she had been trying to avoid. But she was smart enough to know that avoiding it would only make it worse. How had that woman actually been her mother? How had Donna managed to work with Annabeth day in and day out, never trying to connect? How could she bear the estrangement? How could she bear Annabeth's ignorance and be content without her as a daughter? Hell, how could Donna have ever left her to begin with? It was something that Annabeth could not even come close to understanding, especially in light of her own lost child.

_One night, three generations destroyed. _Annabeth unconsciously brought her arms up and clutched them around her now-barren midsection. It was a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Bruce. She knew he was stranding back, arms folded, watching her carefully. There was a distance between them, yes, but it was not insurmountable. Alfred had said that Bruce rarely showed what he truly felt— he was a _man_, after all, and to make matters worse, he was the _Bat_man. No, the distance was simply physical, for she was absolutely certain that emotionally, he was suffering too, right by her side. And yet, even in the middle of his own pain, he had done everything in his power to ease Annabeth back into life.

Something in Annabeth was shifting. Since everything had happened and her life had turned upside down, she had been carrying her grief silently, like a block of ice at her core. Now, faced with Bruce's kindness, that block was finally beginning to melt. She felt a lump beginning to burn in her throat. She wasn't sure if she was going to cry or puke, but either way, she didn't want to do it in front of Bruce. "I need to...um...excuse me, for a moment, please. I want to use the bathroom." Carefully avoiding his eyes, she slipped past his protective position and out of the room.

It took Bruce a full five minutes before he finally figured out that Annabeth wasn't in the bathroom, and in fact, wasn't around at all. Somehow, she had managed to do a runner.

* * *

Alfred was in the kitchen, just beginning to start preparations for supper, when Bruce appeared. "Have you seen Annabeth?"

"She hasn't been in here." Alfred paused in the act of cutting up vegetables, the Henkels knife hovering over the eggplant for a brief moment before he resumed his task. "She manage to escape you, did she?"

"It looks like it."

Alfred couldn't resist the opportunity to bait him. "Interesting how the convalescent moves faster than you do."

"Your concern is underwhelming, Alfred. Are you going to give me a hand?"

"I'm fairly certain this will not tax your superior detective skills overly much, sir. Plus, I have a _soufflé_ I must watch."

When Alfred got on one of his culinary kicks, it could be difficult to deter him. With a suppressed sigh, Bruce turned around and headed back out of the kitchen. Annabeth had to be in the Manor ...somewhere.

It took twenty minutes of vain searching through more than two dozen rooms—he never appreciated how overly-large the Manor was up until now—before it finally occurred to Bruce where Annabeth would be. Heaving a sigh that he didn't bother to suppress this time, and bearing an expression of distaste, Bruce headed off to the chapel.

Sure enough, that was where she was, sitting in the pew closest to the altar, her back to the entrance. Bruce hovered for a moment, as much from a lack of desire to enter as a lack of desire to intrude. But he saw her shoulders hitch up and shudder, and then heard the soft sobs echo in the holy quiet, and without any more hesitation, he moved towards her.

"Hey there," he said softly.

She froze for a moment, and then turned towards him. "Hi." Her voice choked with a sob that had been rising from deep within her gut.

Bruce sat down in the pew behind her, but leaned forward and folded his elbows against her seat back. He propped his head up on his arms, thereby staying close, but allowing her a little space. He didn't say anything, but simply waited.

After a moment, Annabeth spoke. "Really twisted time of year for this to happen, huh?"

He followed her gaze towards one of the panels of stained glass, which depicted the nativity scene of Bethlehem. One miracle birth didn't necessarily guarantee another. "Twisted is one word for it."

"I keep thinking, you know, I wasn't even supposed to get pregnant. How did it happen—_why_ did it happen, if I was just going to lose it anyway?" There was anger in Annabeth's voice, anger at an unknown and possibly nonexistent god for allowing fate to toy with her so. "It just seems so pointless."

"I know."

Annabeth turned her attention back to the stained glass panel, and Bruce could guess the bitter nature of her thoughts. However, her next words weren't anything he would have guessed.

"What did it feel like? When your parents were murdered?"

Bruce had spent most of his life simultaneously re-living the night his parents died and yet trying to avoid the pain of that loss. He was loathe to bring up the memories and diminish their power by sharing them, but for Annabeth, he was willing. She was as lost as he had been once—perhaps _still_ was—and he could not allow her to find her way alone...or worse, to not not find it at all. "It felt like the world was ending. I saw my family destroyed, just like that. The shock...well, the shock didn't last very long. And the numbness, that followed. And then the guilt, and the anger. And then the guilt again—forever." Bruce attempted a smile that was more of a grimace. "I didn't exactly follow the stages of grief in the correct order."

It was difficult to tell if his words had any impact at all. From the suddenly remote look on her face, Annabeth was once more attempting to withdraw into an isolated bubble of moroseness. He recognized it immediately. And the thought of her following in his path of unhappiness was absolutely repugnant to him. He couldn't let that happen. But how to reach her in her remote depths of sorrow? It wasn't as if he had any skills or resources when it came to providing emotional succor.

The answer, when it came to him, hit him like a Joker-driven semi. "Hey," he said softly, "Let's ditch this place. I've got something else I want to show you."

Obediently—or perhaps indifferently—Annabeth followed Bruce out of the chapel and through the Manor. Presumably, Alfred was still busy in the kitchen, and Leslie was no where to be seen; therefore, Bruce and Annabeth seemed to have the run of the place. Bruce's stride was brisk and determined, now that he had a plan to comfort and relate to Annabeth, but more than once he had to catch himself and deliberately slow his pace to match Annabeth's smaller steps.

Back into the study they went, and Annabeth, not being an idiot, had by this time figured out where Bruce was taking her. "Bruce, I wasn't serious, earlier—you don't have to take me to the Batcave."

The stern look he gave her was eerily familiar, which was strange in and of itself, seeing as how whenever he had given it before, his face was covered in the mask and cowl. Nonetheless, it quelled her protest, and so did his next words. "You weren't kidding, Annabeth. You were serious. So let me take you to _my _chapel. It's where _I _go when I need answers and comfort."

He closed and locked the door to the study, and then crossed over to the piano, where he played the off-key notes that would open the hidden doorway. "There's another way to open it," he told her. "You could turn the hands on the grandfather clock to 10:47." He didn't explain the significance, but Annabeth didn't need to ask.

As the lift bore them down the shaft and into the cave, Bruce glanced over at Annabeth. In the subterranean gloom, it was difficult to see her expression. He hoped he was making the right decision. But when they stepped out of the lift, another thought distracted him—when _was _the last time he had been here. It seemed...neglected. Forgotten, almost. He had returned the Tumbler, the night that Safe Haven was raided, but that had been the last time. _He hadn't taken up the Batman mantle since that night._

A disconcerting thought, but not the top priority at present—which was, in and of itself, disconcerting. Bruce directed his attention back to Annabeth, who stood by his side in the middle of the Batcave. The look of dejected sorrow had, amazingly enough, left her; now she was gazing about, as awed and curious as the first night she had come to the Batcave. The night that she had figured out who Bruce truly was.

This thought must have occurred to Annabeth, too, for she tore her gaze away from her surroundings and glanced up at Bruce, who was still sticking to her side like a burr. "Different circumstances, huh?"

Suddenly her face crumbled, and she made a choking noise, as though someone had gripped her throat. Something within her—her ability to restrain her emotions—had suddenly broken, and now Annabeth made no attempts to fight it, as she had done each time before. She was simply too defeated and too adrift in an abyss of loneliness and grief to care. Bruce watched as her shoulders shook with the force of her tears, and for a moment, he was unable to move. He was relieved that Annabeth finally seemed to be coming to terms and acknowledging the loss of their child—but as well, he was conscious of a shameful dismay that she had chosen now, in his presence, to grieve. How could he possibly try to be a comfort to her, when he was barely able to process grief himself?

As Annabeth continued to cry, Bruce ground his teeth and acknowledged a rather substantial disgust with himself. _This isn't about you,_he snarled inwardly. _It's about both of you—about all three of us. _Yes, that was right, there was a third being involved in their pain. Bruce had never spent too much time thinking of the politics and ethics behind the arguments of when life began, and frankly, he still didn't know or even care. What he did know was that there had been a _potential _life, and it had been destroyed—along with a part of both himself and Annabeth. Seth Percival would be charged with attempted murder, but he had committed an even greater crime, and one which would never be punished—the destruction of a fledgling family.

This realization tore through him, even more violently than the loss that he had acknowledged the night before, and it was this which finally broke his momentary trance. This was a pain too crippling to bear alone, and so, desperate to both seek and give comfort, Bruce roughly pulled Annabeth to him, and finally allowed himself to add his own tears to hers.

They did not linger long in the Batcave. Instead, they headed back upstairs to Annabeth's room, where Bruce immediately took charge. He pulled back the blankets and fluffed the pillows, and then most remarkably, began undressing Annabeth.

"What the hell?" she barked as he started to lift up her shirt.

"Don't be a twit," he snapped. "You're getting into bed. Let me help."

So she did, passively allowing him to pull her clothing off and dress her in another pair of pajamas. All of this he did with a gentle, almost chaste reverence. Only one time did he pause, as he took in the scar on her abdomen where Seth's bullet had torn through both her skin and their lives.

Finally, Annabeth was in her pajamas, and Bruce helped her into bed. He pulled the duvet over her, and then turned out the lights.

"Are you leaving?" There was a note of surprise, panic almost, in Annabeth's voice, and despite himself, he could not help but to feel just the tiniest bit flattered.

"I'm not leaving," he told her quietly, his voice disembodied, yet reassuringly familiar, in the darkness. She felt the mattress shift and sag a little as he sat down upon it, and then carefully lowered himself so he was laying beside her. "I'm right here."

After a moment, Annabeth spoke up again. "Bruce?"

"Hmmm?"

"I want...I want you to tell me everything."

A pause, and then when he spoke, his voice was wary. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I know you know about Donna and Seth, and how they tied back into all of this. Seth told me that night. But I also know that you have ways of finding out so much more...so I want you to tell me what you found out about them."

She felt his hand, slowly stroking her hair away from her face. "Are you sure you want to know this? You have to realize it won't be pretty."

"I don't _want _to know this, Bruce. I _need _to know this."

She felt him lie back on the pillows beside her, felt his hand softly fall on her abdomen, where the scar was. And then he spoke.

"Alfred found out some of the stuff on Donna, right before Percival made his move. It's probably the same thing that he had told you—that your mother, Susan, left when you were two. She and Seth moved to Chicago, and she divorced your father and married Seth. She changed her name, of course, and the records were pretty well-buried—no doubt Percival paid off the right people." He paused for a moment, debating his next words. "Alfred kept digging, even after Gordon arrested Percival. He turned up all sorts of old police reports from Chicago. Turns out Percival had a bit of a heavy hand. Their neighbors would call the cops, but Donna never pressed any charges. There were broken bones...concussions...But she stuck with him a long time."

He felt, rather than heard, Annabeth's quiet, bitter laugh. "Abusive relationships have a way of enduring. Seth had his hold on Donna until the last, long after they divorced."

"They divorced back in the early nineties," Bruce told her, now determined to give her all the information she had asked for. "They both moved back to Gotham, each on their own..."

"...that's what he said, too..."

"And Donna got a pretty hefty divorce settlement. She had gone to college, back in Chicago, and got a bachelor's in psychology and a master's in business administration, so she used that, along with her money, to get Safe Haven off the ground. And she had Seth track you down." Here's where the story got more difficult. "Donna found out what happened in your freshman year."

Annabeth nodded, thankful that the darkness hid their faces from each other. Some burdens were just too painful for others to see. "Seth said that Donna had come to him and asked him to punish the men who raped me."

"I think he was good at his word." Bruce thought about the information Alfred had unearthed back in the autumn. "We did some research a while back, and every one of the men who attacked you were dead or missing within a year's time."

Through the darkness, it was impossible to see her reaction, and he found himself grateful. Was she relieved? Glad? Vengeful? He didn't really want to know—particularly because, when he thought of the men, and what he would have done if he had come across them, he felt a shadow of primal, protective rage that stirred within himself. "I think Donna made a bargain with the devil," he added.

"I know she did."

"From what we can gather, Donna followed your movements through college and grad school. She recruited you, and I have every reason to think that was planned too. I think she was trying to have you in her life, in whatever capacity she could. From that point on, you know the rest."

Annabeth did know the rest—the mentoring, the slowly-deepening friendship and trust. She remembered being in awe of Donna when she had realized that she had had Timmy, all on her own. She told this to Bruce. "She was forty-forty then, and she told me she had figured out this was her last chance to have a child. She had spent spent gobs of money being fertilized, and I think no one was more surprised than she when it took. But she was always so happy, so proud of him." Suddenly, Annabeth was crying again. "All that time, my mother was there. Right there."

Bruce held tight to her and felt the sobs convulse her body. "It's a cold comfort, but I think she did the best she could."

"I know she did," Annabeth managed to gasp out as she wept. "Now more than ever, _I understand. _I'll never forgive her for selling out those women, but god help me, now that I've experienced a life growing inside of me, I understand why she danced with the devil."

From that point on, she simply cried, and Bruce simply held her. Their sorrow was finally beginning to merge. More time passed, but neither of them noticed. Neither Alfred nor Leslie came looking for them, and so they were left to themselves, to find their way and guide each other through the pain.

"How fucking typical it is," Annabeth said at one point, "I go through most of my life having no family, and then I come _this close _to having an _entire _family, just to lose it all over again."

"You haven't lost everything," Bruce said. "There's still Timmy. He's your brother. And you're all he has now." And then he added, without thinking, "But we've both lost too much. It's time to hold on to each other." He pulled her close. "Let me help you through this."


	54. Chapter 54

A very long time ago—many more years ago than Alfred cared to admit—his mother had read to him from a book of fairy tales.

Come to think about it, maybe he didn't care to admit the fairy tale part, either. Somehow, it just didn't _do_ for the butler to the Batman to have been raised on a steady intellectual diet of the Brothers Grimm, with a dollop of Hans Christian Anderson for dessert. Nonetheless, fairy tales had been a constant in his thoroughly British upbringing, and his favorite tale had been n_Sleeping Beauty. _Something about the enchanted castle and the cursed sleep, he supposed...there was something wistfully poetic about it.

In the days following Annabeth's arrival at the Manor, Alfred thought of that particular fairy tale quite often. For it seemed to him that, in much the same way as the Prince's kiss had awakened the Sleeping Beauty and brought the castle back to life, the presence of Annabeth had broken a curse on the Manor. And in the future, whenever Alfred would think back on those days, that was what he remembered: a castle returning to life after a long and cursed sleep; a reawakening, during which, in dozens of tiny, subtle ways, hope and warmth and sunlight crept back through the halls and walls of the Wayne family home and broke the icy grip of winter.

Of course, that cursed, fairy tale winter was metaphorical, whereas they were in the midst of what was a very real and very brutal winter, which offered weather that was far from magical. However, it was a testament to the magic _within _the house that the cutting winds, fickle winter storms, gloomy days, and dark nights which unfolded beyond the Manor's walls only seemed to emphasize the strange pleasantness that was developing within.

Rooms and corridors that had stood silent and bereft of all human company now were opened up, and people passed through them now all the time. Annabeth in particular possessed a special knack for losing her way, and Bruce took to heading off in search of her no less than four times a day. Leslie was simply happy to be back in the home of her remembered and much-missed friends, and spent much of her time in the conservatory, or else in the Library—a completely different room than the study, and one filled with an astonishing selection of texts and artwork. Alfred, of course, was in seventh heaven, now that he had call to fulfill more traditional butler duties. When he wasn't moving through rooms, tending to fires, arranging flowers, bringing in the latest newspapers, or assisting Bruce in locating Annabeth, he could usually be espied in the kitchens, boiling water for tea or inventorying the pantry or supervising food deliveries or planning and cooking the next meal. He had taken it upon himself to coax Annabeth's appetite back into existence, and he took this responsibility very seriously.

But even at his busiest, at the back of his mind, he was thinking about that fairy tale.

As for Bruce and Annabeth themselves, well, it was more difficult to say with any certainty if the curse upon them had been lifted. To be sure, Annabeth gained more color and energy each day, and Bruce seemed rather glued to her side. But each day they spent hours isolated with no one and nothing other than the company of each other. When the weather was decent enough, they would tromp all around the barren, wintery grounds of the estate, Annabeth bundled up and looking slightly ridiculous in one of Bruce's enormous winter coats. And when the weather was foul, and they were trapped indoors, the two of them proved to be quite resourceful. They ended up in the study most often, curled up in front of a bright, warm blaze crackling away in the fireplace. From time to time, Annabeth would head up to her office, and Bruce would haunt Alfred in the kitchen, or else Leslie in the Library, and he would brood. And then, every now and then, Annabeth would retreat to the chapel for a good, long cry. Bruce knew she had chosen that place deliberately—she knew that being in the chapel made him uncomfortable, and so he knew she wished to be left alone at those times, to confront her deepest grief on her own.

But every night, he came to her.

He would wait until half an hour had passed after she excused herself and slipped away from the public rooms. And then he would bid good-night to Alfred and Leslie—neither of whom were fooled—and go to his own room and quietly prepare for sleep. And then, by way of the "office" that linked their rooms, he would slip into her room. She was never asleep. She was always lying awake in her bed, waiting for him.

In the cold darkness, in each other's arms, they found a chaste but powerful comfort. For hours, they would lie there, wide awake, saying little, staring up at an unsympathetic ceiling, listening to the sound of their own breathing.

In this way, Bruce and Annabeth found their most powerfully healing moments. And it was possible that they, like the Manor, were returning to life.

* * *

"There's no more reason for me to stay," Leslie said to Alfred one morning, a week or so after Annabeth had been released from the hospital. "Annabeth's doing just fine. Her vitals are strong and healthy, the pain has pretty much passed—the last four days, she's declined any painkillers. She's getting to a much better place, mentally. I've done all I can do."

They were in the kitchen. Leslie had perched herself on a stool at the work island in the middle of the room, and she was watching Alfred as one by one, he juiced a large bowl of oranges. The awkwardness of the earlier days had diminished, partially because they both knew that theirs was a friendship of too long a duration and too potent to jeopardize, but also because Alfred had begun to treat her with less of an attitude of distant affection and more warmth—much in the same way as he had done in the years before Bruce Wayne had returned from the dead.

Now, as Leslie voiced the reasons why she was no longer a necessary presence at Wayne Manor, Alfred paused and pretended to listen. As he nodded and made the appropriately understanding noises, his mind was formulating the most persuasive reason for her to stay on. When he was certain that Leslie was done speaking, he poured her a glass of the juice, passed it to her, and waited until she had started drinking before he struck back. "Can't I persuade you to linger a little longer? It isn't just Master Bruce who makes sure Annabeth is getting better, after all. Your company helps her, too. And in case you haven't noticed, Master Bruce has some fairly intense tendencies towards a life path as a recluse..."

"When he's not in the city, deliberately trying to drag his own name through the mud," Leslie interjected.

"All part of the ultimate hermit agenda, I suspect. My point being—" Alfred placed both hands on the counter and leaned in towards Leslie, "that having company here at the Manor is a very simple way to remind Master Bruce _that it doesn't have to be like that."_

"You should have been a politician, Alfred," Leslie said softly.

"And lowered myself to your dreadful Yankee standards?" Practically shuddering at the thought, Alfred rejected this idea immediately. "No, thank you! I have no desire to become fodder for some well-intentioned, but in-poor-taste cartoon on the cover of _The New Yorker. _I prefer to limit my meddling to this; it's far more rewarding. So what say you? Care to tarry a bit longer and help us re-integrate Master Bruce into civilization?"

Leslie pondered this as she watched him move around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinet doors, pulling out pots, putting away dishes, flipping thorough battered, ingredient-crusted recipe books. His movements were calm and measured, his expression far more content and less watchful than usual. In the few times that Leslie had seen Alfred since Bruce had returned, he had always seemed vaguely anxious and preoccupied. But not lately.

"You're really devoted to him, aren't you?" she asked suddenly.

"I am." Alfred didn't hesitate to agree with her. "And I will see him settled before I think about a life beyond Wayne Manor." He didn't add that he wasn't _quite _sure what he meant by Bruce Wayne being "settled." Settled down? Giving up the Batman? Committing to a lifetime of talk therapy and selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors? "Although heaven knows when it will be," he added.

Resolutely, Leslie nodded. She wasn't a fool, and she could see Alfred was doing the honorable thing and letting her know the lay of the land. Still, like most misguidedly optimistic women, she still had her hopes. "Well, then, let's see what we can do to make life normal for Bruce around here."

So, despite her earlier resolution to leave, Leslie lingered on.

But then, with almost rude suddenness, others began to intrude on this fairy-tale existence. And when it did happen, it all happened at once. One morning, not long after Leslie's halfhearted attempt to leave, Bruce stood in the doorway leading into Annabeth's room, gazing at her as she slowly made preparations for the day ahead.

"You sure you're ready for this?" he asked.

Was she? Annabeth had no idea. She had not been at the Manor for very long, but already she was feeling very sheltered. Gotham City, and all of its problems, seemed a million miles away—which was rather ironic, seeing it was Gotham which had landed her in all this trouble. But Annabeth was no stranger to duty, and there were many duties before her. It was simply a strange and nasty stroke of luck that two of the more pressing duties came to her on the same day.

"You still haven't answered my question," Bruce pointed out. He moved towards where she sat, at the magnificent vanity table. It looked exactly like the one his mother had sat at years ago, but of course that one had perished in the flames that had torn through the original Manor. Still, it was an exact replica, one of the ten originals which had been produced in a small workshop in Brussels in 1908, according to Alfred, who had often felt the need to randomly inform Bruce of the history of various objects in the Manor. Usually it was an object that he had had a rather difficult time procuring.

Annabeth set down the comb she had been running through her damp hair. "I have no idea if I'm ready," she told him. "But I suspect that doesn't matter. It's not like I have too much of a choice." _So I'll do what needs to be done, because it's what I've always done_, she wanted to add. Common sense restrained her—it sounded too self-pitying, and the time for that had long since passed. Now all there was time for was action.

He was standing behind her now, his hands on her shoulders. Annabeth saw his face in the mirror, and smiled at his reflection. It was a small smile, but genuine. "I need to get back on the horse, anyway," she told him. "We both know that. There's too much work to do."

"Tell me about it." Bruce pulled away and meandered over to the window. "Still, that's a lot of work for one day—"

"—and there's no way to get out of it." Annabeth's voice revealed her old core of steel. "You know it. And you're going to have to stop fussing over me sometime."

Bruce grimaced in reply. It was bad enough that Maya was even now on her way to the Manor, her car loaded up with all sorts of boxes and papers and correspondence. It seemed that just because Safe Haven was temporarily closed, the business of running it continued on, and Maya was drowning. The previous night, Annabeth had made the decision to take up her workload again, and invited Maya to journey out to the Manor so they could tackle things. But not an hour after Annabeth and Maya had made their decision, another call came through. This one was from Donna's attorney; he was quite eager to meet with Annabeth. Time was of the essence, he had implied, and Annabeth, knowing the social services system like the back of her hand, knew that he was correct. And so, the attorney would visit the Manor that evening, for a pleasant dinner and a session of legal strategizing for dessert. And then, tomorrow, the social worker would be coming with Timmy; it would be Annabeth's first time seeing him since Donna had been killed.

Wisely, Annabeth didn't speak any more of the day ahead. Having lived under the same roof as Bruce for a little while now, she had gained a little more insight into his personality. She suspected that his unease could be attributed to two factors: first, that he was unhappy to be leading such an inactive existence. He was used to being in the thick of things, out every night, in one identity or another, but there had been very little of that lately. Annabeth sympathized; she too was less than thrilled to be limited by her body's current weaknesses. It had to be worse for Bruce, though; he was as fit and healthy as ever, and so the only thing keeping him from his other activities was...well, her.

The other cause for Bruce's current unease was one which he was trying valiantly to hide from Annabeth. To his infinite credit, not once did Bruce let on how difficult it was for him, not just to open up the Manor to outsiders, but also to share Annabeth. He wanted to keep constant vigil over both—and it was possible to do so with neither. He struggled a great deal, internally, to conquer his knee-jerk aversion to company, and as soon as he realized how much Annabeth was eagerly anticipating the company, his resolve was strengthened, and he put on the best act possible. She saw right through it, of course, and sympathized, but that was all. He was the one who had hauled her here to the Manor, after all.

"I think Maya's here," Bruce said. "I can hear her car coming up the drive."

Annabeth rose, and together they headed to the window to peer out. It _was_ Maya's car, a vintage VW bug that she had purchased back in college. The little indigo-blue vehicle looked absolutely ludicrous, dwarfed as it was by the massive proportions of Wayne Manor, but Maya blithely ignored this. In this—and in other ways that she had yet to realize—she had acquired some of Annabeth's supreme indifference to her own possessions when compared to others. As they watched from the window, Maya popped out of her car and began pulling boxes out and stacking them on the gravel.

Not more than five minutes later, Maya sailed into Annabeth's bedroom, with Alfred trailing behind her, laden down with two of the boxes. And as she entered, Bruce resolved to permanently banish his various misgivings. While it would have been inaccurate to say that Annabeth's face lit up when Maya entered the room—after all, despite all of the changes Annabeth had undergone, she was still a rather reserved, even dour woman—her eyes did glow warmly with the pleasure of seeing a familiar face, and she held out her arms. "Maya!"

"Since when do you, like, touch people?" Maya demanded, not bothering to stifle the incredulity in her voice. She was dimly aware of Alfred quietly setting down the box and discreetly withdrawing. Once she was certain he had left, Maya crossed the room, bent over, and gave Annabeth a quick hug. Not quick enough, for she caught a whiff of Annabeth's scent—a clean, soapy smell, along with the scent of the freesia lotion she had been wearing since she had first discovered Bath and Body Works back in the mid-nineties and had never stopped using, and now it hit Maya, painfully, of how close they had come to losing her. Upon realizing this, her quick hug lingered, and she tightened her grip, feeling Annabeth's fragile bones, before roughly rubbing her eyes and getting rid of the tear that had popped up. "You're looking good."

"I'm feeling okay, and that's what matters." Annabeth's eyes glittered dangerously, and Maya realized she hadn't been the only one close to tears. "I'm thinking it's about damned time we got some work done."

From years of experience, Maya recognized the note of determination in Annabeth's voice. There was work to be done, and god help the person who tried to keep them from doing it. Still the same Annabeth, Maya noted in relief, and found it a comforting thought.

"Do you need my help?"

The new voice startled Maya. She glanced behind her, and saw Bruce, standing in the shadows by the fireplace, from which a bright, warm blaze now crackled. Seeing Maya looking back at him, Bruce gave a lazy wave. How long had he been standing there?

Annabeth smiled, seemingly unconcerned by his presence. "I can't imagine that this would interest you...it's going to be a lot of administrative work."

Bruce shrugged. "I don't mind. It's not like there's much else to do...Alfred's going to be cleaning today, and he hates it when I'm underfoot. He says that cleaning the Manor would be so much easier if I weren't living in it, but wouldn't that defeat the purpose?" He paused for a moment to let those words sink in. "Anyway, I bet I can help here. There's some important decisions we've got to make."

"You're right about that." Annabeth looked grim. "But before that, there's still a million administrative details that manage to pile up, regardless of whether we're open. There's a hell of a lot of work to do."

"Yet you seem remarkably excited."

"Are you kidding?" Annabeth actually grinned. "This is like my frigging birthday! Better than my birthday, actually. I hate birthdays. They're depressing as hell, and that's _if_ someone remembers it. Now...what's in those boxes you had poor Alfred haul up?"

* * *

Before coming out to the Manor, Maya had been slightly apprehensive—it would be the first time she had seen Annabeth since she had been released from the hospital, and more than that, it would be the first time that they would have a conversation of substance since that terrible night. She couldn't pinpoint exactly what her anxieties were, exactly, but as she and Annabeth slipped readily and easily into their old working relationship, Maya began to see how silly it had been for her to have any trepidations. Annabeth was still the same funny old Annabeth—obsessive, caring, obnoxious in her dedication, and slightly prickly, but still, beloved for all of those reasons and more.

Together they bent their heads to the task of digging themselves out of the backlog of work which had gone neglected in the days that had lapsed since That Night. There were reports to file; letters, emails, and memos to dictate; bills to pay; bills to dispute. There were donations—actually, a surprising number of them—to record and acknowledge, and deposit slips to fill out. There were clients to follow up with, appointments to re-schedule, legislation to monitor, newspaper articles and editorials to read and file. These, in particular, took up the better part of two hours—the drama and trauma of Safe Haven and its involvement in organized crime had made papers as far west as St. Louis.

"We might need to hire someone for PR," Maya said at one point, as she finished reading aloud from a publication which proclaimed itself to be the "mouthpiece for the conservative family values that define the greater Cementville region." She made a disgusted noise. "Allow me to reiterate what we are up against. These fine souls imply that we're a lot of misguided harridans who—and this is a direct quote—'got what was coming to them for undermining the stability of the traditional American family...' What's that noise?"

"The last of my tooth enamel, grinding away." Annabeth rubbed her jaw. "Forget hiring someone for PR, I need Bruce to get us a good dentist." She snatched the paper out of Maya's hands. "Where the fuck is Cementville, anyway?"

"Somewhere in Pennsylvania, about six miles northeast of a nuclear waste dump site." Maya had already moved on to another stack of papers. "Here's _The New York Times,_ about three weeks' worth." She happened to glance over at Bruce, who had by this point managed to doze off in one of the armchairs. "What was the point of him hanging around if he just conked out?"

Annabeth knew that Bruce was merely feigning sleep, and so simply smiled and shrugged. "He was probably going to be bored either way. So he may as well be bored here."

The two of them continued to toil away, and somehow managed to plow through a rather remarkable amount of work. Finally, around mid-afternoon, a quiet knock pulled their attention away from their tasks. They watched as Alfred backed his way into the room, carefully pulling along a cart which bore one of his afternoon teas. "I beg your pardon for interrupting, Miss Annabeth. But I thought you ladies might be in need of some refreshment by now."

Obediently, Annabeth's stomach growled. "I think you're right. And anyway, Maya hasn't had the opportunity to feast upon one of your legendary spreads. She'll think you're trying to fatten her up to be Hansel's side dish...so what did you pull out of your hat this time?"

Alfred was already pouring the hot water. "Darjeeling and Earl Grey. Egg and cress sandwiches, also salmon and cucumber. Scones, of course, with Devonshire cream. Some fruit tartlettes, and a selection of cheeses and biscuits." He set the silver teapot down and carefully lifted the lid on each platter of food, and Maya could only hope she was not drooling as she took in the delectables being described. To distract herself, she glanced over at Annabeth. "It's amazing you haven't gained ten pounds since I've been here. And him..." here she glanced over at Bruce, still feigning sleep. "How he stays the weight he does, I'll never understand."

Obediently, Bruce snorted and shifted in his armchair, and a moment later, his eyes opened. "Do I smell food?"

"Splendid timing, Master Wayne," Alfred said. "Tea?"

"Sure." Bruce stretched and looked over at Annabeth and Maya, who were beginning to stack up some of the paperwork they had gone through. "Did I miss anything good?"

"Just the boring stuff," Annabeth told him. "You woke up in time for the good stuff."

"Which is?"

"Time for us to start batting around ideas for the next director of Safe Haven." Annabeth glanced over at Maya. "Right now, Bruce is the only active member on the Board of Directors. We were in the process of bringing in Kate Moriarty, but still, at the present, Safe Haven's a bit like a headless beast...in fact, it's like a headless beast that's also missing most of its limbs. We need to get more people on the board, we need to replace Donna, we need to grasp and control the finances...not to mention, we need to make sure we don't get slapped silly with lawsuits." It was a huge task, and one that needed to be accomplished as soon as possible.

"Well, why don't you just replace Donna as Executive Director?" Bruce asked.

The silence that greeted this suggestion was a tense one, to say the least. Alfred actually paused in his work, and glanced at each of them. Bruce looked quite earnest; Maya awkward; Annabeth vaguely amused.

"Well?" Bruce prompted them. "What do you think?"

"I think it would be a great way to send the place straight to hell in a handbasket," Maya blurted. She glanced over at Annabeth. "Sorry, Annabeth. But I know you agree. Plus, I think it would be a little...hard for you. It's Donna's legacy."

"She's right, Bruce," Annabeth said. "I'm not meant to lead Safe Haven. Besides, the _Board _has to be the ones to appoint and vote on the new Executive Director."

"The board which is rather...understaffed...at the moment," Bruce mused.

"The board is what we need to address first," Annabeth said decisively. Maya nodded in agreement. "Let's have some suggestions."

Silence stretched before them, and then Maya finally ventured an idea. "I think Donna—" she cut herself off, then started again. "I think we should have at least one attorney on the board. Free legal advice and all."

Bruce nodded in agreement. "Some sort of chaplain, or community religious leader, might not hurt."

"A doctor, too." Annabeth was taking notes as fast as she could. "And may as well have some more philanthropists on the board. Or politicians."

"Politicians..." Bruce repeated this word thoughtfully, and then unexpectedly grinned. "I've got an idea. Alfred, is our District Representative in town?"

"He and his wife are wintering in Palm Beach, I think."

"What about the County Supervisor?"

"In Palm Springs, at least until the end of the month. And the Gotham City Manager is, too."

Annabeth couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You mean to tell me our elected officials aren't even here? That they're off...humping palm trees in warm locales with bourgeois names?"

As intent as she was on polishing off her cream-laden scone, Maya had to pause. "Does this actually surprise you?"

After a moment's thought, Annabeth sighed. "No."

"Didn't think so. So stop complaining and start eating; it's better for your health. Here," she thrust a fruit tart into Annabeth's hands. "Eat."

Obediently, Annabeth ate; by this point, she was growing accustomed to food being forced upon her, usually when she was about to wax righteously indignant about some injustice or other. Bruce smirked, and then got up. "Would you ladies excuse both Alfred and myself for a few moments?"

Judging by the expression of surprise, and then disapproval, on Alfred's face, Annabeth figured that whatever Bruce was cooking up was news to him. "Maya and I will be fine. You've left us plenty of food."

"Great." Bruce grinned, and then, with Alfred trailing in his wake, he was out the door.

As the door closed, Annabeth decided to forestall any questions as tactfully as she could—which was not tactfully at all. "Before you ask, no, I haven't any idea what's gotten into him. More tea?"

* * *

It was more than just a few minutes before Bruce returned. Fifteen minutes passed, and the two women began to realize that whatever Bruce was up to would take more than a little bit of time. And without the presence of Bruce, there was little to stop Maya and Annabeth from tentatively finding their way back into their working relationship of old.

Chewing thoughtfully on what had to be her third scone—lord, she'd need to get a new wedding gown, at this rate—Maya decided that a direct approach would be the one that Annabeth would appreciate the most. "Annabeth? I need to say something."

Carefully, Annabeth set down her cup and saucer and became still. "I'm listening." Her dark eyes betrayed nothing.

"I just need to say—first, I'm so sorry. So sorry for everything. And I'm sure you're sick to death of people saying that to you," Maya added, "but I think it would have been worse for me to not acknowledge it at all. Maybe I should have done it sooner-"

"No." The word sounded harsher than Annabeth had intended, and it took them both by surprise. "No, you should _not_ apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. You will not explain, reproach, or berate yourself for anything that happened. You caused nothing, brought no harm to us. You are completely innocent." She looked so fierce, so determined, Maya was half-afraid she would try to shake her for emphasis. But then, Annabeth's expression softened. "You've only ever helped Safe Haven, and while you may have been doing it simply for the paycheck, you still never made a morally ambiguous sacrifice for what you thought was a greater good. No one died because of anything you did, or of any choice you made."

As soon as Annabeth paused for a breath, Maya jumped in. "There's something else I need to say. I want you to know, I never knew about Donna, nothing. The entire time I worked for Donna, I never had any idea about—about anything she was involved with. What she was doing on the side—and who she was, that she was your mother. She never let on so much as a hint, and I never would have helped her lie or hide anything. I just never knew."

This possibility had crossed Annabeth's mind more than once, but as she took in Maya's painfully earnest expression, she truly believed her. Donna's betrayals had never been committed with the knowing assistance of Maya. Here, at least, was a kernel of comfort—a truly tiny kernel, but no less substantial. "I believe you," Annabeth said softly. "And it's good to know some things in this damned town aren't corrupt. But what you need to realize now, Maya, is that Donna deceived you, too."

Judging by the look on Maya's face, this was not something that had occurred to her before. Annabeth pressed the point. "Donna withheld the same information from you as she did from the rest of us. She used you, and endangered you."

"But she wasn't _my_ mother," Maya pointed out. "Yes, Donna wronged me, she wronged everyone at Safe Haven. Her deception was deep, but _you_ were her daughter, and especially wronged. Don't discount your own loss or draw attention away from it."

"I wasn't aware that was what I was doing."

"Not deliberately." Maya's gaze was level and honest. "But it's your way to subvert your own sorrow and pain, and focus on the needs of others, all the while not dealing with your own, and letting them fester like a poisonous wound. You focus on others because you don't know how to move past the crap that's happened to you. Be honest with yourself about your lot. You've been dealt a shitty hand—again—so look at the cards, deal with them, and then get them the hell out of your hands. Otherwise you're just going to end up the single unluckiest and unhappiest woman in Gotham."

Surprisingly, Annabeth smiled at this, but it was a ghostly kind of smile, with the shadows of bitterness. "Who says I'm not already?"

Before Maya could muster some sort of suitable reply, she was rescued by a soft knock on the door. A moment later, Bruce poked his head around the door and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry for taking so long...it took a little more work than we expected." Seeing Maya's welcoming smile, and Annabeth's more restrained pleasure, he stepped in the room. Alfred followed behind him, looking far more composed.

"Care to tell us what you've been up to?" Annabeth prompted them.

"Definitely. Maya, are you free tomorrow night?"

"Enh?"

"You and your fiance. Are you both free tomorrow?"

"I think so...why?"

"Alfred and I have spent a little time arranging a dinner party for tomorrow evening. A select group of people with the necessary amount of community spirit, who will feel honored and obligated to answer when duty calls." Bruce grinned at Annabeth. "I think after tomorrow evening, we'll have a hand-picked board."

"Plying them with drinks and unpronounceable food is all it takes?" Annabeth glanced over at Alfred, who had begun to gather together the detritus of their meal. "How will you manage to pull this off?"

"Have you tasted my food, Miss Annabeth?"Alfred gestured significantly at the now-empty plate which only sported a few scones crumbs—the only evidence that baked goods had ever been there. "Furthermore, Gotham tends to be rather drab at this time of year...most everyone is in Palm Beach or Palm Springs."

"Or Palm Coast," Bruce added.

"Or Palm Desert," Alfred concluded. "Which is actually right next to Palm Springs, but that's an entirely different subject. My point is, my dears, that Master Wayne having a lovely, intimate dinner party is just appealing enough to exactly the type of people that you'd like to involve in Safe Haven."

"People who are good quality, but not completely involved in the social scene for its own sake." Bruce concluded here. "I think you'll like every last one of them."

"It's a good idea," Annabeth admitted grudgingly. "And it should expedite the process of rebuilding the board."

Not long after, Maya began to prepare for her departure. "What time do you want me here tomorrow?" she asked Annabeth as she packed away her laptop.

"Not too early." Annabeth hesitated, glanced at Bruce before continuing. "You see, the social worker should be bringing Timmy tomorrow during the day. So I wouldn't show up until maybe an hour or so before dinner...right, Bruce?"

"Absolutely," Bruce agreed. "No distractions for you while you're spending time with Timmy and the social worker." He sensed her unspoken anxiety, and casually let a hand drop to Annabeth's shoulder. Maya didn't miss this, nor the reassuring squeeze he gave her, nor Annabeth bringing her own hand up to touch his. "Let's walk you on down to your car, Maya."

So they did, the three of them moving at a pace much slower than Annabeth's aggressive, no-nonsense clip from the days of yore. As she absently listened to Bruce's cheerful, banal chatter, Maya found herself thinking of Annabeth's newer, more subdued personality. She was grim as ever, and as dedicated as ever—but somehow, it seemed as though much of her fire had been extinguished. Maya missed the old Annabeth, full of piss and vinegar and always spoiling for a fight.

_Maybe it's a temporary thing,_ Maya told herself. _She's been through so much...it takes time to recover._ She prayed that this was the case.

As Bruce hauled open the front doors, the cold air blasted them all. Annabeth ignored it as she turned and faced Maya. "Thank you for coming out. It was the first step, and I couldn't have done it on my own." This part she murmured low.

Maya glanced at Bruce. "It's pretty safe to say that you won't ever have to." This she said just as quietly.

Together the three of them made their way down to the gravel drive, where Maya's car was parked. Impulsively, Annabeth reached over and caught the younger woman in a fierce hug. "Thank you."

Maya returned the hug with interest. And as she pulled away, she watched as Annabeth took her place on the steps beside Bruce, who put his arm around her and drew her to him. She couldn't help but to notice what an attractive couple they made. "You look like you belong there, the lady of the manor," she said teasingly. "Make sure she sticks around, Bruce."

"I'm working on it." This Bruce said with jocularity, yet the look in his eyes seemed troubled.

Maya opened her car door and prepared to slip in, but caught herself and turned back to Annabeth. "You look like her, you know," she blurted, before she could stop herself.

Bruce felt Annabeth's body stiffen defensively, and he tightened his arm around her in a vain attempt to shield her from what he knew was coming."Sorry?" Annabeth asked.

For her part, Maya looked as though she dearly wished she had kept her mouth shut. Still, the damage had been done. "I said, you look like her. Donna, I mean. It's not something I ever thought about, of course, until after everything, but...still...knowing what I know now, I can see it. Not in anything obvious, maybe just a little around the eyes. Timmy has the same eyes, too. It seems so obvious to me, now..." Maya shrugged, aware of the pain she was causing. "Sorry," she muttered.

"Don't be." Annabeth's voice rang out, more strong and confident than she had sounded all day. "All I'm ever going to know of Donna is what other people tell me. So I want to hear everything." And her voice rang with the old tone of command, the certainty of truth, and Maya knew that the Old Annabeth was still alive, no doubt recovering and growing stronger day by day.

The only question was, would the Old Annabeth be able adjust to this new life?


	55. Chapter 55

For a few moments, they stood in the cold, watching Maya's car head down the drive as it began the long journey back to Gotham. But as soon as the car disappeared from their line of vision, Bruce recalled himself and the woman who was now shivering by his side. "Are you alright?"

This question—so simple, yet so loaded—penetrated Annabeth's reverie, and she managed to pull herself together enough to give Bruce what she hoped was a reassuring smile. She suspected, though, that all it did was reveal her utter weariness. "I'm fine."

Naturally, Bruce was not fooled. "You're exhausted. We should go back inside." He put an arm around her shoulders, firmly turning her away from the outside world, away from all the concerns and responsibilities that had come barging back into Annabeth's life that day, and towards the comforting, warm shelter of the Manor. It was damning evidence of Annabeth's condition that she neither uttered a word of protest nor shrugged him off. She simply leaned into Bruce and allowed him to lead her back into the house.

Across the Entrance Hall, up the staircase, down the corridor, all the way to her suite, Annabeth remained silent, remote, lost in her contemplations. Only after Bruce had opened the door to her room and gently nudged her in did Annabeth truly return to the present. "What time are we expecting the attorney for dinner?"

"Seven." Bruce glanced at his watch, which was largely a needless gesture, as he usually knew exactly what time it was. "It's just now five. Do you think you should rest for a bit?"

Did she? Days ago, Annabeth had thought she had ceased to require time to rest in the middle of the day; truly, she had believed her body and spirit to be healed as they would ever be. But now, the real world was beginning to encroach once more, and soon these lazy winter days would be only a memory, distant and perhaps strange, even foreign or dreamlike. In the meantime...

"Rest sounds good," she told Bruce. "I wouldn't mind a few minutes to catch my breath and collect my thoughts."

This was, evidently, the response Bruce had been hoping for; he rewarded her with an encouraging smile and a satisfied nod. "We've got a long evening ahead of us. And it's been a busy day. I'll wake you around six-thirty?"

"Sounds good." Annabeth leaned against the wall and released a shaky breath. "I think I'm more tired than I realized."

"Then rest is mandatory." His tone was firm, and gave no room for argument—this was less Bruce, and more the Batman, and Annabeth glanced at him in some surprise. It had been a while .since she had heard that voice "Sleep."

Even before he pulled the door shut, Annabeth was moving towards the bed. The linens were fresh—Alfred insisted on changing them every day—the pillows were plumped, the duvet turned slightly back. At that moment, it seemed like the height of comfort and luxury, and she was not about to deny herself this. Not even bothering to kick off her shoes, or troubling to burrow under the covers, Annabeth flung herself onto the bed and into the arms of sleep.

* * *

"Miss Annabeth."

The quiet, courtly voice wove its way into Annabeth's dreams, an incongruous element among the haunting images and noises that currently tormented her sleep. Why was Mayor Garcia dressed in a purple suit and speaking to her in a British accent? The dream setting of Gotham began to recede as the dream-Garcia persisted.

"_Miss Annabeth."_

She awoke far more abruptly than Alfred intended, and the suddenness of her awakening destroyed any benefits her nap had brought her. As Alfred leaned over and turned on the lamp by her bed, he grimaced apologetically. "I'm terribly sorry, my dear."

Annabeth had already sat up, and was running her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair. "Jesus. Don't worry about it, I'd feel like shit anyway. What time is it?"

"Six-thirty. Master Wayne sent me up—it appears that our dinner guest got his time wrong. He's been here since six."

"Since six?" Until now, Annabeth had been struggling to not fall back asleep, but this news was quite effective in jolting her awake.

"Yes. Master Wayne has been entertaining Mr. Llorta while I finished preparing the dinner, and they told me to let you sleep. But I suspected you would not wish that." Alfred paused, appearing to think for a moment before delivering the final bit of information. "I believe that Master Wayne is plying our guest with watered whiskey, garnished with questions about the legality of emu ownership."

Annabeth was wide awake now. "Christ on a cracker! You mean that Bruce is getting my attorney _drunk?"_

"So it would appear." Alfred headed to Annabeth's closet and pulled out the first items with which his hands came in contact—black pants and a wine-colored sweater. "Don't trouble yourself by spending too much time getting ready. Chances are Master Wayne will have him under the table before too much longer.

Annabeth leaned over her vanity and gazed in the mirror—she _looked _as shitty as she felt. "What's Bruce playing at?"

Already on his way out of the room, Alfred paused at the door. "You know Master Wayne. When he wants information, he throws at his guests charm, money, or booze. It works every time."

"Not every time, Alfred," Annabeth softly reminded him,

"No, not every time. That's when he puts on the batsuit." Having delivered this inarguable point, Alfred exited the room, leaving Annabeth to change.

Several minutes later, having dressed, brushed her hair, sprayed on some perfume, and gurgled some mouthwash—_christ, the wine's going to taste disgusting at dinner—_Annabeth emerged from her suite. Alfred had not waited, so she headed down the stairs alone. Even from the stairs, she could hear Bruce's voice, loud and jocular, echoing through the Manor; apparently, "Brucie" had come out to play. Annabeth cursed silently. It had been a long time since she had had to put up with that aspect of his personality. It was going to be a very long evening, indeed. Annabeth took a deep breath and started to head towards the library, but paused for a moment. It was mainly to give her another moment to collect her thoughts and prepare for the evening ahead, but it could have been a providential move, too. Because not more than a couple of moments later, she heard an unfamiliar voice—it could only be Llorta's—as it uttered words that doused ice-cold water over her heart.

"...not at all confident in Miss de Burgh's chances for custody."

* * *

As far as Gotham attorneys went, Robert Llorta was one of the cleaner ones. Of course, much of this could be attributed to the fact that he was rather a modest and unassuming man; his firm was small and only moderately successful, and his specialty was wills, trusts, and probate. With few grand ambitions and little by way of cases that could excite the interest and involvement of the rich, powerful, and corrupt, Llorta simply had little opportunity to become dirty. He was just another Gotham citizen, one of the millions of unimportant people overlooked by the mighty politicians, criminals, and captains of industry. Perhaps that was why Donna Drake had chosen him from among the thousands of attorneys who worked in the city.

He had voiced as much to Bruce over the past half-hour, little dreaming that it was information that was already in the possession of the goofy young man who was now entertaining him. He also had no clue that the goofy young man was actually a rather brilliant young man, a keen observer, and in possession of the knowledge that Llorta had a bit of a weakness for Glen Goriach scotch.

And for wine.

And for port.

Even the cleanest lawyers had chinks in their armor—and as far as Bruce was concerned, high-functioning alcoholism was one of the best chinks to have. It took minimal effort to penetrate the chink, and the price he had to pay—a mildly guilty conscience—was not a steep one.

This passed through Bruce's mind as he refreshed Llorta's drink once more and passed it back to him. Turning up the charm a notch, he offered a crooked smile. "Sorry for the delay...Annabeth should be ready soon. And so should dinner—but given Alfred's talents in the kitchen, it will be well worth the wait."

Llorta waved a dismissive hand. "Not to worry. I'm the one who came in an entire hour early, after all. I'm still so sorry about that—my secretary must have recorded the time wrong."

"Pleasure to have you here," Bruce grinned. "I'm just sorry I couldn't give you a tour, but Alfred's the one who knows everything. I'd just get us lost."

"I'm more interested in meeting Miss de Burgh, anyway."

"Oh?" Bruce rattled the ice in his tumbler, which was still filled with his first, untouched whiskey and water. Llorta didn't notice. This one-word response from Bruce was the only opening Llorta needed.

"I've heard plenty about her, of course, from Donna Drake, back when she was my client. And there's been plenty about her in the news. And that makes her case an interesting one. But problematic, too. You see, I think there's a strong likelihood that guardianship of Timothy Drake might be awarded elsewhere. I'm not at all confident in Miss de Burgh's chances for custody."

Carefully, Bruce set down his glass. "What do you mean?"

Llorta shrugged. "This isn't my specialty, so it's very hard for me to say. But Child Protective Services in Gotham have gotten quite zealous in recent years, and they are, some would say, overly careful about safeguarding the interests of the children. I'm going to recommend Miss de Burgh retain an attorney who specializes in this type of case."

_Another complication. _Bruce found that he was not totally surprised; poor Annabeth's life seemed littered with them. Inadvertently, she collected them the way other collected Pez, or teacups. Or scars. "Don't give Annabeth the details."

His sudden intensity caught Llorta off-guard. "What?"

"Just advise Annabeth to retain a specialist attorney. Don't give details." Bruce gestured toward the doorway leading through to the rest of the Manor, and allowed a little of his drink to slosh over the side. "She's had a long day, and she's just now getting back on her feet. She doesn't need to know all that now, not yet."

Perhaps it should have gone against Llorta's better judgment, but the pleasantly addled sensation brought on by the fine scotch, coupled with Bruce Wayne's unexpectedly forceful reaction, cowed Llorta into agreeing. "If you think it's best."

Even as the words left his mouth, Llorta was rethinking the wisdom of this approach. And later, of course, after he had returned to the reality of his own far more modest home, and after the effects of the drinks had worn off, he would regret his decision, but already it was too late.

"Am I interrupting?"

Annabeth's voice, from the entrance to the library, caught the attention of both men; she was leaning against the door frame. For one moment, Bruce's suave unflappability was almost shaken, but he almost immediately recovered and crossed the room to join her side. "Been there long?"

"No," Annabeth said, the lie coming off her tongue with such ease that it made her a little uncomfortable. Still, now was not the time to ponder her increasing ability to dissemble; nor was it the time discuss what she had just overheard, or Bruce's continued attempts to steer events to his liking. "Just woke up. I'm sorry I'm a little tardy," she added, raising her voice to address Robert Llorta. "Someone let me sleep too long."

"Just thought you could use the sleep." Privately, Bruce thought she could do with a few hours more. The shadows under her eyes were more pronounced than ever, and whatever color had come into her face over the last few days had been overcome by her usual pallor.

"Nonsense," Annabeth waved away his concerns. "And miss the opportunity to meet Mr. Robert Llorta? Highly unlikely."

Obediently, Robert Llorta took his cue and rose to greet Annabeth, and fortunately, he was not so enamored of his drink that he brought it with him. "Miss de Burgh."

"Annabeth, please." She gave the attorney her trademark handshake—brief, but hearty—followed by a tight smile. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise. I've been wanting to meet with you for a while, but you have quite an effective bodyguard."

"You have no idea," Annabeth murmured, glancing at Bruce. He had been anxiously studying her, and with that one response, he knew that she had overheard a great deal of the conversation that had taken place before her entrance. "But I've been indisposed before now." She settled herself on an extremely uncomfortable Victorian settee. "Won't you sit back down? Let's talk for a few minutes before dinner."

Without being asked, Bruce turned to the sideboard, which was positively cluttered with various bottles and glasses. With a few quick movements, he prepared Annabeth a drink, which he then brought to her.

"Gin and tonic."

"Thanks," Annabeth responded automatically, although she regarded the clear liquid and its lime garnish with confusion. Gin was not exactly her drink of choice...still, she took a sip, and her confusion only increased. Plenty of tonic, and nary a drop of gin to be had._What on earth? _She glanced at Bruce, who merely winked at her as he turned his attention to once more refreshing Llorta's drink.

Soon enough she had figured out Bruce's game. Llorta had plenty of information, and whereas sober discretion may have prevented him from sharing his impressions, an alcohol-lubricated tongue was the perfect countermeasure. And it was best for Bruce and Annabeth to remain as sober as possible to hear what he had to say.

"Of course, I'm so terribly sorry to hear about what has happened to you in recent months-" _sip "-_It was a terrible course of events. I couldn't believe it when I opened the papers..." _Sip. "_I have to say, it didn't square with the Donna Drake that I knew."

A long, pained silence stretched across the room as his words sunk in, and as much to her own surprise as Bruce's, Annabeth caught herself giving him an agonized look. He could only respond with a gesture of helplessness. He had gotten the attorney drunk enough to be open and indiscreet—he may as well have gift-wrapped him, topped him off with a bow and stuck him under one of the damned Christmas trees that Alfred had refused to take down. That was as much as he could do—only Annabeth knew the questions she wanted to ask the man, and so only she could do the grilling.

She was a smart woman, his Annabeth, and it was clear that this was something she had already figured out. Slowly, she sipped at her tonic water, giving herself time to collect her thoughts and choose her next words carefully. "Maybe you could tell me a little more about the Donna Drake that you knew?"

Perhaps staying sober had not been the best move.

* * *

After they were seated at the dinner table—Annabeth and Bruce on one side, Llorta facing them, accompanied by Leslie, who had emerged just as Alfred was bringing out the first course—with Alfred rather absurdly insisting on serving himself—Bruce quickly began to wish that his drink was more potent in nature. And Annabeth's drink, too. It was quickly turning into one of the more painfully awkward meals he had ever endured.

For Annabeth, listening to Llorta share his impressions and memories of Donna was painful in the extreme. And for Bruce, watching Annabeth try to charm, cajole, and even flirt the information out of the attorney was beyond painful to witness. Her eyelash flutterings were weak, and made it look as though she were trying to dislodge something that had flown into her eye; her laughter was ill-timed and forced, and her attempts at light-hearted banter were very feeble indeed.

Bruce found himself beginning to envy Leslie, who steadily drained the glasses of wine that were placed in front of her, and even Alfred, whom he suspected was taking more than a few drinks from the decanter. How on earth had he ever gotten the idea that this was how to win friends and influence people? Fortunately, the wine in Alfred's decanter flowed liberally, and so it was that the attorney—by all accounts a clean and intelligent man, when not soused—never realized the extent to which he was being manipulated.

Over the first course (proscuitto wrapped scallops with a Napa chardonnay), Llorta told them about his first meeting with Donna Drake. "She was a very classy lady," he told Annabeth when she pressed him and then pouted when he hesitated. "You got the impression that she answered to no one, but she was always very gracious in her authority. She could have been a diplomat, or a...a CEO of a multinational corporation. Nothing fazed her."

During the second course (braised wild boar with a mushroom ragout, served over risotto, paired with a Merlot), he told them of when Donna had made the decision to have Timmy. "Of course, the only reason she told me in the first place was so that she could start changing the will, and so on. But her mind was made up, and she dared anyone to gainsay her. She sat across from me, dressed to kill in a charcoal grey suit, and spoke with absolute conviction. When I brought up concerns about her age, she wouldn't even hear of it. 'The doctors think I can do it, Llorta,' she said, 'and I'll _make _it happen.'"

And when dessert was marched in (raspberry panna cotta and a cabernet sauvignon, along with a large selection of cheeses), Llorta thankfully switched to water. But that was when he dropped the bomb: when he had first heard of Annabeth de Burgh. "Donna was absolutely insistent that no one else was to be Timothy Drake's guardian except for you. She said that there was no one else on earth that she trusted more than you."

At this point, Bruce accidentally knocked over his wine glass—the oldest trick in the book, even to Annabeth's less-than-worldly eyes. But the liquid splashed towards Llorta, it provided enough of a distraction for Annabeth to take a few deep breaths and brush away the tears that were threatening to spill. As Alfred began to mop up the mess on the table, and as Leslie helped Llorta clean up, Annabeth silently mouthed a _thank you _to Bruce. Wordlessly, he nodded, and underneath the table, his hand reached for hers and gave one strong squeeze.

For the remainder of the meal, Bruce carried the conversation from one inane subject to the next, and it wasn't until they retired back to the library—Leslie had remained behind to help Alfred—and settled down with glasses of port, that they returned to the main subject of the night: Donna Drake's legacy.

Miraculously, Llorta still had enough of his wits about him to reach for the briefcase he had brought along. From the depths of this, he extracted several file folders, and spent a brief period of time searching through them. "Ah, here we go." He glanced over at Annabeth, who sat stiffly upon the settee, and then observed Bruce, standing silently behind her. "As you know better than most, Donna Drake had appointed you Timmy's godmother and guardian, as well as next-of-kin. Two years ago she established a trust fund for him, and in the event of her death, requested that you be appointed head trustee." Llorta paused, choosing his next words carefully. "At the same time that she established the trust fund, she made final updates to her will, the contents of which are fairly brief, cut-and-dry, even. She leaves almost everything to Timmy, in trust, to provide for his support during his minority and then to fund his education. She has bequeathed her midtown condo to you, as well as the contents thereof, to dispose of as you see fit."

Annabeth nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. "You never thought to question why she would will me her property?"

"I am generally not in the habit of questioning my clients' bequests..." A smile, perhaps a little inappropriate, tugged at the corner of Lorta's mouth. "And as bequests go, this one was fairly tame. Furthermore, you were named Timmy's guardian and godmother; it seemed a reasonable bequest."

"That's what I need to talk to you about." Annabeth leaned forward, and Bruce silently braced himself. "When do I get to take custody of Timmy?"

The silence in the room was tense as Llorta tried to think of the correct answer, and as both Bruce and Annabeth watched him. Finally, Llorta chose an enormously diplomatic answer, one that was truthful, yet still acquiesced to Bruce's request.

He shook his head. "That, I couldn't tell you. I tend to focus only on wills and trusts and probate, so it's hard to say. But if it drags on too much, I'll be happy to recommend a good family attorney for you."

Annabeth wasn't going to let him escape that easily. "You think I might have to fight for custody?"

"I really can't say." Lorta held out his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "Again, I'm not an expert in family law. But I understand you will be seeing Timmy, and meeting with his social worker, tomorrow?"

Annabeth nodded. "They're coming in the morning."

"I suggest you talk with them then. That's where you're going to get your answers and see what your next step is going to be."

Restraining a sudden urge to completely freak out, Annabeth took a deep breath—and then the breath caught in her throat as she felt Bruce's hand fall on her shoulder and give one strong squeeze. This helped her to focus, and she managed to smile feebly at Lorta. "Thank you...I imagine this has been awkward for you, given the limited amount of information you have at your disposal."

Lorta's smile was equal parts sympathy and resignation. "It's no more difficult for me than it is for you, Miss de Burgh. Let me know when you're ready to access Donna Drake's condo, and start inventorying the contents. But I imagine you will want to wait and see how things promise to shake out with Timmy."

Annabeth didn't like the way he phrased that, not one bit. _Shaking out_implied uncertainty, a question as to how the situation would unfold. Her unease was not helped by Lorta's well-intended but misguided words as he began to pack up his briefcase: "I'll have my secretary email you the contact information for some attorneys specializing in child custody issues."

They followed Llorta out to the Entrance Hall, where Alfred had appeared, once again demonstrating an unnerving sense for knowing when his presence was needed. "A driver is waiting for you, Mr. Llorta. And someone will bring your car around to your office tomorrow." Privately, he found it a wonder of the modern world that the man was still on his feet. _Lawyers._

Once more, Bruce and Annabeth found themselves at the entrance to the Manor, watching another guest depart—and with him, the last of any confidence that had built up during the day. Annabeth found herself almost thankful to see the attorney leave; what she had thought would be an evening of answers had turned into an evening in which there were more uncertainties than ever.

As Alfred closed and locked the front doors, Bruce turned to Annabeth. "Where on earth did you learn to flirt?" he asked. "That was_painful."_

Annabeth wasn't amused, and she ignored his jibe. "Come with me."

Nonplussed, Bruce obeyed. He followed her from the Entrance Hall, aware of Alfred's curious look behind him and Annabeth's determined walk before him. "Where are we going?"

It was an unnecessary question; he knew where they were headed. "Annabeth..."

"I heard what you and Llorta were talking about." She threw this over her shoulder, not stopping for a moment until they entered the study, and then she whirled around. "Llorta thinks that I won't get custody of Timmy, and you didn't want him telling me. Why?"

It had been a long time since she and Bruce had butted heads. He began to feel...what? Almost a sense of relief. "If you heard all of that, then you heard what I told him. You've had a rough go of it. I didn't want you to be upset."

Her response was a snort, followed by a roll of the eyes. "Too late for that, don't you think?"

Bruce remained silent. The expression he put on his face, Annabeth knew very well. Distant, detached. Arrogant, even, but not in the "Brucie" way. In the Batman way, the way that meant that he knew best, and he was calling the shots, and she should just sit back and hand the reins over to him.

"Had you even thought beyond hiding that information from me?" Annabeth asked, but she already had the answer. "Of course you did. You've probably already retained the best attorney, or else you're orchestrating a kidnapping. _Bruce," _she pressed, and the pleading of her voice ensured that he turned his eyes away from the fixed point in the distance at which he had been stubbornly gazing. "I'm actually not angry...not really. But I need to be the one who makes the decisions. I need to be the one who chooses what move to make. This isn't Gotham. You can save Gotham. This is me. And you can't save me. Only I can. How many times do I have to tell you?"

A reluctant smile played around Bruce's lips. "I wasn't aware that you had ever told me."

"Then you weren't paying attention the first five or ten or twenty times. Look, Bruce-" Annabeth caught his hand. "This is my battle. I need to be the one to fight it, not you. And I need for you to show me everything you have on Donna."

Bruce blinked in surprise. How did she know that they had gathered enough to write a biography on Donna's life?

"Come on, Bruce." Annabeth sensed his consternation. "Believe it or not, I do know you."

Stalling for time, even though he knew it was useless, Bruce challenged her. "What do you think you really know about me?"

"Maybe not you, personally. But I know your work ethic." Annabeth fixed him with her gaze. "I know that you would never leave a stone unturned. I know you well enough to know _that, _at least. And I know that you have a way of getting at any information that's out there. _And _I know that you and Alfred knew things about my family before I knew them. And _furthermore," _she added, seeing him about to interrupt, "you probably still know more than I do. And if you know more about my family than I do, then it's very possible that Social Services and Child Protective Services know more, too. I can't do battle with an opponent who has the upper hand in every way possible."

_Battle. Opponent. _Annabeth was either very shrewd, or very lucky; she had chosen just the right words that would resonate with Bruce. She must have seen she was gaining the advantage, because she pressed on. "So I need every piece of information about Donna Drake that's out there. So that I can help Timmy. I don't want any surprises." She wandered over to the piano, and laid a reverent hand on the shiny wood. "I respect you far much to go down there without your permission," she said, and before he could properly approve of her respect for his space, she continued. "But I am telling you—_take me down there."_

Interesting, Bruce mused as he plunked at the discordant piano keys and led Annabeth through the passageway to the lift._ She can't flirt for shit. But for someone who never had a mother growing up, she sure has the mother voice down pat._

* * *

The cave looked the same as always...and yet...something felt different.

The same dim light cast eerie shadows into the countless crevices, the same muffled squeaks and flutterings echoed from where the bats conducted their nocturnal business. The same cold, damp air cloyed its way onto them. The same equipment, supplies, machines, computers remained in their usual spots—but it was here that Bruce increased his scrutiny. Here, actually, there was a visible difference. A very thin layer of dust covered almost every object, and Bruce regarded this with the same horror that a single woman would feel if a love interest had paid an unexpected visit to her messy home.

Fully conscious of Annabeth standing behind him, gazing about with avid curiosity—she had not yet spent enough time in the cave to have become accustomed to its wonders—Bruce tried to wipe away some of the dust without her noticing. How had all of this accumulated? Surely it hadn't been here the last time he had been in the Cave—Bruce frowned as his brain leapt to the next logical question: When _had _been the last time he had been in the Cave?

_New Year's Eve, _he realized. _Right after Annabeth had come to the Manor. _He hadn't set foot in the Cave since then, and actually had spent little time in it in the days before then, when Annabeth was in the hospital, recovering. Since all of that had transpired, he had been otherwise occupied, first at the hospital, and then with Safe Haven, and then tending to Annabeth at the Manor. So, all in all, there had been plenty of opportunities for the dust to settle in a most literal fashion.

Bruce took an ineffectual swipe at the main computer monitor, hoping that Annabeth didn't notice. "I'll boot this up, and it'll be ready in a moment. This is where Alfred stored the information that he gathered."

Annabeth nodded, but Bruce wondered if she had registered his words. "Annabeth," he said sharply, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you really sure you want to do this?" As he asked this, his voice dropped into his habitual growl, usually so commanding, but she didn't seem to notice. "Will it really make a difference? What can it help?"

"It can help me," Annabeth answered; apparently, she was listening after all. "Timmy's going to want to know about this someday, and I need to know everything, so I can know what to tell him. And when. He'll learn everything...in time..." Her eyes went out of focus for a moment as she pondered some unhappy truth. "I know that there's going to be plenty in Alfred's files that won't be pretty. And I know that it's going to cause me pain. But I will willingly undergo that pain now for Timmy. I'll do for him what no one did for me."

There was much logic there, painful though it was. Reluctantly, Bruce released his grip on her shoulder, and she nodded in acknowledgment. "I appreciate what you want to do, Bruce. But you can't keep out all of the demons. All you can do is help me find them and let me fight them on my own terms."

In response, Bruce was able to utter nothing more than a noncommittal grunt, and then turned his attention to the monitor as he began to pull up the files on Donna.

Here was an unwelcome surprise, which explained why the keyboard bore less dust in comparison to its surroundings: someone had uploaded new files. Alfred, presumably, and within the last week. Bruce could tell immediately that the files had been sent on by a private investigative firm, one contracted through the complex web of Bruce's shadow companies. From the looks of it, Alfred had taken it upon himself to commission more research on Donna—normally a laudable effort, but given that Bruce had not had the chance to vet the results, not entirely appreciated.

Sometimes he really hated it when Alfred took the initiative.

No chance of getting rid of these newest files, these unknown quantities. Annabeth was even now at his shoulder, eagerly scanning the information on the monitor. "Looks like your fellows are pretty thorough," she remarked. "There's a lot to read through."

Unhappily, Bruce agreed. "But I don't suppose there's a chance you'll refrain from reading through some of these...?"

"Not a sinner's hope in hell." Already, Annabeth's hand was inching towards the mouse, but Bruce wasn't yet ready to yield.

"Then will you at least promise me something?"

Annabeth couldn't help but to agree. She suspected that Bruce rarely compromised or negotiated. "Shoot."

He gestured towards the monitor. "See those files there? The ones with the date stamp of last week?"

"Yes."

"Save those to read last. And let me read those with you."

To his relief, Annabeth acquiesced with a single, curt nod.

After that, there was little Bruce could do but allow her to have her way with the computer. She practically jostled him out of his seat, and so he withdrew as gracefully as possible. "I'll be...over there..." he said quietly, gesturing vaguely behind him. "Let me know when you're ready to read the new stuff."

Annabeth barely heard him. Already she was engrossed, staring at the monitor. Bruce, the Batcave, the Manor, all of it fell to the back of her awareness as she plunged into the wealth of information that sat before her.

It was a story that began many years back, when Annabeth had been still too young to understand the forces at work around her. Her entire life, she had operated with limited information about her family, and therefore, her existence. It was strange, even surreal, to see everything finally revealed to her, and even stranger to think of how it was revealed.

As she had told Bruce, her mother—_Donna, _it was so hard to remember that they were one and the same—had left when Annabeth was two. One of the first items of information that showed up in the reports were bank records—or more accurately, the bank records of both Seth and Donna-or Gretchen, as she was known as back then. They had had a joint account, it appeared. At first, the money had come in slowly, and mainly in the form of cash deposits. As the years passed, the money increased, but the method of gaining it didn't change; always, it was the cryptic source of cash.

Other than that, the early years were, in the main, an unknown quantity. The only other information was the income tax returns for Seth Percival, which reflected a relatively modest—although always increasing—income. And then, the next item of note—the papers confirming the dissolution of the marriage between Gretchen/Donna and Annabeth's father.

Annabeth had a vague recollection of those divorce papers. Her father had flung them at her, one day, when she had tottered home from kindergarten. It was one of her first memories, actually; she could still recall the look of twisted anguish and hatred on her father's face; she also recalled that he had stormed out of the house not long after, leaving Annabeth on her own with only her innocent confusion and those papers. Not as though she could read them—many of her classmates already knew their ABCs and could read very basic words, but not Annabeth. It had taken her years to catch up, and then surpass, her peers.

Shaking her head to dislodge these memories, Annabeth surged ahead with her research. Next on the monitor were the name change documents, the critical information that they had finally uncovered that had finally disclosed all, and which reflected Susan Stratos' name change to Gretchen Rogers, and then from Gretchen to Donna. _It takes more than a change of name to change who you are,_Annabeth mused sadly. Had Donna find it enough? Did her new name shield her from the regrets of a life lost, a daughter relinquished?

Then there was the marriage certificate for Seth Percival and Gretchen Rogers. Annabeth noted immediately that Susan/Gretchen/Donna had not changed her last name to Seth's. Why not? Was it her mother's firm bid for a lasting identity, created only for herself? Annabeth would never have a chance to ask now.

On and on she read—Donna had gotten her Bachelor's Degree during her years with Seth in Chicago, and shortly after their divorce in 1990, it looked as though Donna had moved back to Gotham. Judging by the records they had pulled up on Seth, he had moved back at the same time. _Bastard was telling the truth—Donna followed him back. _Obsessed with him though she may have been, she had immediately gone to school for her Master's Degree. And then, later, she had established Safe Haven.

Annabeth paused for a moment to stretch her limbs and collect her thoughts. As she did, she noticed that Bruce was no longer beside her; rather, he had withdrawn to another corner of the cave, where he appeared to be engaged in some rather strenuous-looking repetitions on a weight machine. How long had he been at it? Never one to spend much time "reading into" the actions of men, Annabeth couldn't help but to feel absurdly flattered that he had left her to her own devices here in this holy of holies. Perhaps they were becoming more integrated in each other's lives than they realized.

Even as she watched, Bruce finished his last repetition and came away from the machine, breathing heavily as he did. At some point, his shirt had come off, and despite the dank chill of the cave, his chest and shoulders were covered in a sheen of sweat. Annabeth turned away, shyly, but uncertain as to why, but Bruce didn't seem to notice. "Where are you at?" he asked as he came to stand behind her and lean over her shoulder. Annabeth tried very hard to focus, not on his very strong, vital presence, but on the words on the monitor.

"Good timing. You're about where Alfred found the additional information and added it on," Bruce said. "Ready for this?"

She nodded, but in truth, she was less than certain. And as she began to read, she became even more hesitant. First were the police reports from Chicago—complaints from neighbors about screaming, witnesses describing physical alterations, restraining orders issued and violated and revoked, issued and violated and revoked. _The investigators Alfred had hired would have put the Pinkertons to shame,_ Annabeth mused—_or perhaps they _are _the Pinkertons. _They had somehow managed to interview one of Donna's old neighbors. Bruce could almost feel her cringe as she read of the time that Gretchen Rogers had come knocking on their door late one night, face a bloody mess, pleading shelter. They had taken her in, given her ice, stopped the bleeding, begged her to call the police, to leave Percival. She had spent the night on their couch, but the next morning, she was gone. Whenever she passed them in the hallways after that, she kept her eyes down, as though in shame.

There were a couple of interesting medical records, too—both having to do with miscarriages; both times, Gretchen had been otherwise injured, claiming household accidents. Annabeth's jaw clenched as she read this, but ruthlessly, she continued.

The investigators had turned up college transcripts, too. With absurd pride, Annabeth saw that her mother had been single-mindedly dedicated, much like herself, and had excelled in her studies.

Newspaper articles, parking tickets, photographs, interviews with colleagues and acquaintances and old landlords and neighbors, a few more legal documents...on and on, Annabeth read, gradually learning more and more about her mother, but strangely, coming up with more questions as well. She had a perfect picture of the life that Donna Drake had led, but still precious little picture of Donna Drake as a person.

The final documents were wholly unexpected. _I guess at the end, you start thinking about the beginning, _Annabeth thought irrelevantly, as she gazed at the digital images of her parents' birth certificates. And then, below that, a very incomplete family tree.

"Neither of my parents had brothers or sisters," she unnecessarily remarked to Bruce as they gazed at it. "And my grandparents were all dead by the time I went to the County—believe me, they would have turned up any close relatives. But it looks like...my parents had aunts and uncles, and _they _had kids..."

"Looks like there's enough cousins and second cousins and so on to keep Timmy company for a while," Bruce observed quietly. "There's family enough, if you want to find them. Just say the word."

_Family. _It was such a foreign concept to Annabeth now; for as long as she could remember, she had schooled herself to rely on no one, to trust few and love fewer. Even as an independent adult, it had been difficult to get out of this mindset. "We'll see." She turned to Bruce with world-weary eyes. "It's a strange gift you've given me, but it's priceless."

Bruce looked away for a moment, unable to meet her gaze. He struggled to master his emotions, and when he did, and turned back to Annabeth, his expression was still pained. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you more—" he stopped for a second, and then gritted his teeth. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep it all from falling apart."

Right then, Annabeth made a decision: she turned away from the keyboard and the monitor. All of it, all of the evidence of her family's past, it would keep for another day; for now, the present was more important. She grasped Bruce's arm. "_Stop. _Just stop already. You can't be everywhere. And you can't do everything. And if you don't accept that, you're going to drive yourself insane. It'll get you killed. I can't tell you why everything happened, but I can tell you that it's me who has to live me life. _I'm _the hero of my life story, not you. You're just a supporting character. You've got to let me save myself, and you've got to absolve yourself from my life's tragedies."

Her eyes burned with the fire that Bruce had first fallen for; he knew she was right. And he knew, too, that she wasn't just talking about herself. She was talking about every single living thing in Gotham.

But suddenly, none of that mattered...because Annabeth was focusing rather intently on him. He cocked his head questioningly, but he had his answer a brief second later, as Annabeth took his face in her hands. "I mean it, Bruce. You think you're the keeper of Gotham, and everyone who lives here. But you're only the keeper of yourself, and your own life."

He didn't agree with her, not one bit. But it was late, and he was too exhausted, too drained to argue. "You should get some rest. Come on." He took her hand and gently tugged, and it was a testament to Annabeth's weariness that she rose and followed Bruce to the lift without protest.

Exhausted though she might have been, Annabeth was not about to go to sleep. A mere ten minutes after Bruce had respectfully left her in her own room with nothing more than a chaste kiss, she was moving through the passageway that joined their rooms. Why she was trying to move stealthily, Annabeth could not begin to guess—after all, who was to overhear? Alfred or Leslie, both of whom likely already suspected what she was only now trying to pursue? Chiding herself for her prurient reservations, Annabeth forced herself to open the door to Bruce's room without knocking.

It was dark, of course, as dark as a Gotham midnight, and for that Annabeth was thankful. She was unused to taking the role of initiator, and if she could do so under the cover of darkness, so much the better.

"Annabeth?"

_Well, I _am _trying to seduce the Batman. Darkness doesn't mean anonymity._

Bruce sat up in bed, senses on high alert. He had not been asleep, but had been lying down, trying to calm his thoughts and chivvy them into a sense of order. But now Annabeth was here. She had never come to him before; always, he had either lingered in her room as it grew later, or else stole away to there. But now, she was here.

Without the hesitation—_or was it common sense?— _that would have held her back before, Annabeth treaded lightly towards Bruce's bed. Just before climbing in beside him, she shed her robe, letting it drop to the floor. A moment later, as she joined him underneath the warm covers, Bruce realized that she had need to shed nothing else. And then, with an energy that belied her supposed exhaustion, she was kissing him, unexpectedly, fiercely, commandingly. Her hands trapped his face, but it was not as though he was trying to squirm away. And then she felt his fingers softly brushing her neck and collar bone, and realized that his insistent mouth had migrated from her lips to her earlobe—_shit, how did he know that this was a favorite spot of hers? _Involuntarily, Annabeth gasped as she felt his teeth graze said lobe, and then nibble, so lightly, yet so insistently. Whatever restraint she had been exercising before was swept away in a violent gust of lust. She practically shoved him down onto the bank of pillows.

Usually before, Bruce had been the aggressor, but this time, he was thoroughly happy to let Annabeth take the lead. Instinctively, he understood that this was something that she needed to do. _No doubt, reading through her family's history had been the catalyst—_but this detached thought was completely obliterated as he realized that, no longer content with simply kissing, Annabeth had decided to let her hands go a-roving. And this was the final action which severed all that tethered them to common sense.

The time for rational thought had passed; the time for sensuality was at hand. In the darkness, with the anonymity that it afforded them, their explorations became ever more heated. Sitting up and pulling Annabeth onto his lap, Bruce felt her legs clench as her body melded to his, straddling him, pressing up against him, finding a rhythm that he instinctively met. She pushed on his shoulders, urging him to fall backwards onto the mattress, and he recognized her desire to be the one in control. Hers were the kisses that became more aggressive; hers were the hands that explored their way all around Bruce's body and guided his hands towards the places that would give her the most pleasure. She was the one who guided and encouraged him, and she was the one whose voice cried out and split the darkness with its keen joy.

Afterwards, they both collapsed on the bed, gasping, tangled in the sheets, completely submitting to the exhaustion which inevitably followed the intense lust that had torn through them. Tentatively, Bruce's arms stole around her, and when he felt Annabeth's yielding body snuggle more closely against him, he tightened his hold and buried his face in her hair. "You feel amazing."

The only response he got was a deep and satisfied sigh. Annabeth was already starting to settle into the sleep of a contented woman. A rare flash of humor hit Bruce—_I feel so used—_before he tightened his arms around Annabeth and allowed himself to fall into a deep, sated sleep.

_**Hello Folks!**_

_**I haven't forgotten you! I haven't forgotten Bruce and Annabeth, either. Like Mrs. Bennet's nerves, they've been my constant companions these many years.**_

_**Housekeeping business: this story will end. Probably in about a month-which is, of course, when the next movie is due out. Do I want to cash in on another wave of enthusiastic readers? Of course. But I want closure. And I want you guys to have closure, too.**_

_**But let me give you a storm-warning: in the next ten days, I am going to be making substantial changes to the story. I've been proofreading this story for the last two months, and the amount of errors and repetitions amaze and shame me (how often do the characters gaze cryptically at each other? How did Annabeth's dog change breeds? Why do I call Alfred ALBERT so much?). I will be combining and replacing chapters on this website. The text won't change much, but the number of chapters will: it will go from 85 to 55 chapters. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT THIS WILL DO TO YOUR PAST REVIEWS OR STORY ALERTS. BE PREPARED FOR FUCKED-UPEDNESS. If you want me to send you an email or a PM regarding imminent changes and whatnot, let me know.**_

_**Credits: I think I heard the line about "at the end you think about the beginning" in the Mr. and Mrs. Smith movie.**_

_**And before you ask, yes, I have read 50 Shades of Grey. Whether or not I enjoyed it is an entirely different kettle of fish.**_

_**Happy reading!**_

_**-Anonymous2004**_


	56. Chapter 56

Gotham City boasted a population of over five million souls. Of those souls, almost one percent of them—around 42,000—were attorneys. It was likely that hundreds, perhaps thousands of those attorneys were just like Robert Llorta: honest and hardworking, of limited ambition but unlimited goodness of heart. And so, unlikely to be at risk of corruption on a grand scale.

Naturally, Seth Percival did not retain the services of any of these attorneys.

His attorney was, in fact, the diametric opposite of Robert Llorta in every regard. Her name was Lucia Brown, and she was a junior partner at Stafford and Douglas, Gotham's premiere criminal defense law firm. That they had assigned him a female attorney was either great irony or greater insult; Seth Percival had not yet decided which.

Lucia and Seth had, of course, loathed each other on first sight, but they were both pragmatists: Percival needed to stay out of prison and Lucia needed a high-profile case to put her on the fast track to Senior Trial Attorney. She was relatively young, blindingly ambitious, reasonably ruthless, and utterly indifferent to her client's guilt or innocence. She didn't give a damn what it was that Percival _had_ done—but she _did_ give a damn about what she could persuade other people into believing that he _hadn't _done.

He had to admit, Lucia Brown was a broad who knew her stuff. This belief of his solidified when, three weeks after he had been arraigned for attempted murder, he was unexpectedly released on bail early one morning.

At six-thirty on the morning in question, he awoke to the routine wake-up call, heralding another day of bland montony in the county jail. But by seven-thirty that same morning, he found himself a free man, being bundled into one of Stafford and Douglas's company cars. He found Lucia sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

"Five hundred fucking thousand dollars?" were the first words out of his mouth.

Lucia shrugged, uncowed by his indignation. "Considering Gotham's going rate for bail in attempted murder is '_fuck you, no bail,' _I think you got off pretty damned cheap. We had to call in some favors, and you'd better believe that those are showing up on the billing report." Lucia lit a cigar, took a puff, and blew the smoke into Seth's direction. "Scoring bail for you was a _major _coup. The senior partners are very impressed."

Seth wasn't about to admit it to her, but he was impressed, too. Of course, jail hadn't been too horrible. A few bribes had been offered (and of course, taken) and as a result, he had had his own cell, more than a few luxuries, and plenty of contact with the outside world. It didn't mean he was eager to stay in jail, though, and he went straight to work on making sure this would not happen. "So what's your strategy? How are you going to get me off?"

Lucia laughed rudely in his face. "Don't be _that _cocky, Seth. You tried to kill Annabeth de Burgh in a roomful of witnesses. There's no question that you're guilty." Seeing the apoplectic fury in his face, she smiled. "Not to worry, though. After we launch an intense PR campaign—upstanding pillar of the community targeted by left-wing extremist feminist groups, blah-blah-blah—we'll make the DA want to avoid anything that brings this to a jury—they'll be quite open to our offer of a plea-bargain. You've already told me you have plenty of information on the Arrows."

"You want me to_ sing?"_

Lucia actually rolled her eyes. "Jesus. No one uses a word like that...this isn't a gangster movie. And _of course _you're going to talk. You're going to tell the DA every little thing you know about the Arrows. By the time you're done, no one in Gotham is going to give a rat's ass that you took a shot at some little self-righteous feminazi goody-goody. You'll be instrumental in bringing down one of the last remaining organized crime units of Gotham. You'll be a _hero." _Lucia looked pleased with herself, and took another puff of her cigar.

Seth sat back in his seat and gazed out the window, taking in the streets of Gotham as they slipped past. "If I'm turning on the Arrows, I'll be in danger. I'll have to leave Gotham."

"Danger? That's putting it mildly. But we have a private security firm on retainer. And eventually you'll probably be relocated through Witness Protection, especially once this goes Federal with the human trafficking portion."

"_Witness protection?" _Seth's lip curled up in disdain. "Who's to say I don't end up in a 1950s ranch house in motherfucking Fort Wayne, Indiana?"

"Better that than a lower bunk in maximum security at Gotham Pen." Having effectively silenced him, Lucia continued on in a more encouraging tone. "Our records indicate you've got plenty of money squirreled away, not even including your offshore assets. Something tells me you spending the rest of your days in Middle America is not an issue. So in the meantime, you just need to sit back, relax, and let us do our jobs." Lucia gave him a pretty, disarming smile—one of the many weapons in her arsenal—and passed him her cigar. "Now, think of more pleasant things. What will you do with your newfound freedom?"

Seth smiled back, thinking of the research and observations and conversations he had had over the past few weeks. He waited until he exhaled a mouthful of delicious smoke before he uttered a single, devastating word. "Payback."

* * *

Annabeth was a nervous wreck.

She had gotten very little sleep the night before—the reasons for this still made her blush, hours later—and as pleasant as the reason had been, it had not been a great way for her to shore up her strength for the day ahead. And when she had finally fallen asleep, only a few hours had passed before she woke up to the morning light...and an empty bed.

Bruce was gone.

Disconcerted, she had taken a moment to get her bearings, and then located her robe—pooled up on the floor where she had discarded it the night before. No garments of Bruce's, anywhere; if it weren't for the rather vivid memories in her head, as well as a couple of red spots on her neck—now _that, _she blushed at all over again; when had she reverted back to middle school?—she would have thought she had dreamt it.

A long shower had helped her awaken, and one of Alfred's gourmet breakfasts _should _have gone further towards restoring her fortitude—but after she had seated herself in the dining room and started to launch into the eggs benedict placed before her, something about Alfred'd demeanor had caught her attention. "Are you alright, Alfred?"

"Quite fine," he had promptly assured her, and passed her a cup of coffee. But his voice was distant, his manner preoccupied...much in the same way Bruce had often seemed, before she had come to understand him.

Annabeth had tried again. "Bruce woke up early, did he?"

_Aahh, there's the trouble. _Alfred's eyes were troubled, although he tried to speak lightly. "He did arise early this morning. Up at sparrowfart, if you will." He offered a smile to accompany the quirky British phrase, but he turned his eyes away from Annabeth's frank gaze. What she didn't know, what Bruce hadn't told her, and what Alfred wouldn't tell her, was that Bruce had awakened early because they had picked up on some private emails going around the DA's office. Bruce had gone down to the Cave to investigate further—and within the hour had torn out of the Manor, driving his newest Lamborghini like hell bent for leather. He hadn't given Alfred an explanation, but Alfred, in monitoring the news feeds, soon found out for himself. A judge had unexpectedly reversed the no-bail stance with regards to Seth Percival, and so bail had been posted, quietly and quickly, in the very early hours of the morning, before the media could catch wind of it. It would take a braver—or crazier—man than Alfred to tell her this, and in fact, the only man suited for that job was no doubt in Gotham right now, raising hell on behalf of his girlfriend.

And now, Annabeth was awaiting the imminent arrival of Timmy Drake and his social worker. Given what she had overheard between Bruce and her attorney the evening before, she was deeply and obviously anxious, but at least she was ignorant of Gotham's latest miscarriage of justice.

She was waiting in the Entrance Hall, perched stiffly on the edge of a Jacobean bench that had likely been occupied by only three people during its entire existence. It had been a piece of furniture designed solely for ornamentation and intimidation, not function or comfort. Alfred briefly considered informing her of this, but thought the better of it, and went a safer route. "Would you like some tea?"

"No coffee?"

"Not bloody likely." Alfred shook his head. "I do not wish to even _imagine_ what you would be like with any more stimulants in you. Green tea is all you'll get."

"I'll pass," Annabeth sighed regretfully, but she knew Alfred was right. She was feeling wretched—not just tired from the lack of sleep, but now clammy and shaky, too. _God, please, not a relapse. Leslie said I was fine. _To distract herself, she glanced at her watch, even though she knew the time: five minutes later than the last time she has looked at her watch, and thirty minutes later than the appointed arrival time of Timmy and his social worker.

"I'm quite certain they're fine, Miss Annabeth." Alfred had seen her glancing at her watch. "No doubt they got caught in traffic."

"No doubt," Annabeth muttered. Certainly, she had_ no doubt_—no doubt that whatever the hold-up was, _traffic _certainly wasn't it. She also had no doubt that she knew the bureaucracy of Gotham inside and out, and she knew their mind-games, too. She had no doubt that she was experiencing the opening salvo in the battle for custody of Timmy Drake.

As if to underscore this point, a soft knock caught their attention. Had they have been any further from the door, they would not have heard it. Alfred moved towards the door, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Annabeth rise—not with haste, not with so much as a twitch to betray her anxiety, but with deliberate and conscious dignity. Head held high, shoulders pulled back, eyes shrewdly, watchfully narrowed, Annabeth looked almost like a queen.

Perhaps more accurately, she looked like a general girded up for battle.

Alfred gave her an approving nod and a smile of encouragement. And then he opened the door.

Annabeth held her breath, willing her poker face to stay in place until she understood the lay of the land. Of course, that was a lost cause—as soon as she saw Timmy standing in the doorway, it didn't matter. Not at that moment, at least. Every one ceased to exist—Alfred, standing aside with an expression of benign pleasure; the social worker, still an unknown opponent but an opponent nonetheless...neither of them mattered. Only Timmy mattered.

"_Ann-beth!"_

Timmy didn't care one jot about the strange, scary house that he had been brought to without explanation; he didn't care about the silent, mean woman who had brought him there. None of that was on his mind. What he cared about was that for the first time in almost a month, he was seeing a familiar face. Ann-beth was nice, she was Mommy's friend. _"Ann-beth!"_ he cried again as he tore away from the grumpy woman's side and flung himself into Ann-beth's waiting arms.

Annabeth swung him up into the air and then hugged him close, delighting in his squeal of joy. "Timmy! I'm so happy to see you!" She felt his arms tighten around her at the same time she felt her heart constrict. This was not only Donna's son, this was her little brother. _Her family._ Realizing this was a profound experience, and she found herself trying to swallow the lump in her throat that this experience caused. "How _are _you?"

Already Timmy was overcoming his initial delight, and moving on to thoughts and people that he associated with Annabeth. "I miss Mommy...Ann-beth, where's Mommy?"

Over the top of Timmy's blonde head, Alfred and Annabeth's eyes met. The older man's face was a study in agonized compassion; instinctively, Annabeth knew he was remembering Bruce as a child, struggling to comprehend the loss of his own parents and come to terms with his own orphaned childhood. "Mommy... Mommy's gone, Timmy. She had to leave."

From the look of intent concentration on Timmy's face, Annabeth could tell this was not the first time that someone had told him this—but who? _Oh, god, it should have been me who told him, _Annabeth thought to herself. But it didn't matter. What mattered is that Timmy had not yet processed Donna's death. She tried a different approach. "It's going to be a long time before you see Mommy again. But even though you won't see her or hear her, she'll still be here. All the time. She loved you _so much, _and she made sure that I'd take good care of you."

"_Ahem."_

The social worker had finally decided to assert her presence. Annabeth turned and surveyed the woman cooly for a moment before giving her a small, chilly smile. "Thank you for bringing Timmy out here."

The social worker nodded once, curtly. "It's quite far out. But it's an exception we're willing to make once or twice."

Annabeth studied her while making no effort to disguise it. The woman was of a certain age, certainly well past her forties, and the harsh lines in her face belied her unnaturally dark hair, which had been done into braids piled on top of her head. She was quite tall—a bit of a battleaxe, really—and dressed in a navy suit.

"I'm Clara Briggs," the woman told her. Her voice lacked any warmth, any openness.

For a moment, Annabeth was silent, reaching deep into the few memories she had of the drug-induced haze of her hospital stay. "You're not the social worker that I talked to when I was in the hospital. ..what was her name? Danielle?"

"I'm not the same one." Briggs, as Annabeth had decided to call her, didn't offer any other explanation, but that didn't mean Annabeth was not going to demand one. She fixed Briggs with a look of sharp scrutiny.

"What happened to Danielle?"

"She was re-assigned."

"Really. When?" Annabeth's inability to be cowed, along with the speed with which she fired these questions must have caught Briggs off-guard, because she answered quickly enough.

"She was reassigned this morning." Then Briggs snapped her mouth shut, knowing already that she had revealed too much.

_This morning. _Warning bells were going off in Annabeth's brain, but her expression betrayed nothing. "I see. So you're new to Timmy, too?"

Silently, Briggs nodded.

In her arms, Timmy was beginning to squirm, and so reluctantly, Annabeth set him down, loathe to relinquish him. "Well, how about while Timmy and I visit, Alfred takes you out to the winter garden? The blossoms there are beautiful—a brilliant splash of color—"

"Supervised visits."

For the first time, Annabeth found herself at a disadvantage, visibly taken aback. This was not a move she was expecting, and it showed on her face. "Pardon?"

"I said, supervised visits. That's all you're allowed."

Several responses crowded their way onto Annabeth's tongue—but wisely, she remembered Timmy, who was even now attaching himself to Annabeth's leg. And so Annabeth chose the least provocative response. "All right. Then let's make ourselves more comfortable in the library, shall we?"

At this suggestion, the little party began to make its way through the Manor, Annabeth leading with a rigid majesty that she could have only acquired from the time she had spent in recent months, rubbing shoulders with some of the snobby self-appointed queens of society. Walking at her side and clutching her hand was Timmy, who alternated his awestruck gazes at his surroundings with adoring looks at Annabeth. Behind them followed nasty Clara Briggs, self-important and fairly radiating disapproval, and bringing up the rear was Alfred. As he followed them, he glanced up and saw Leslie standing on the grand staircase. From her intent expression, he knew she had been watching for a while, and so, desperately, he beckoned for her. To his relief, she began to head down the stairs—there was no way Alfred was going to allow Annabeth to take on this dragon lady alone, and if he and Bruce could not be there, then Leslie was the best alternative.

By the time they had reached the Library, Leslie had caught up to them. Alfred gave her a smile of open-hearted, grateful warmth, which was immediately justified as he realized her presence caught Briggs off-guard. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Leslie Thompkins. House guest and long-time family friend." Her normally pleasant face now offered not even so much as the tiniest smile, and she made no attempt at any courtesy beyond the most basic of introductions. She was now an enemy to Clara Briggs, and she would not pretend otherwise.

The tension stretched its way across the room, affecting everyone but Timmy, who appeared to be happy enough to simply be with his Ann-beth, particularly after she settled on a couch and plopped him down in her lap. Leslie chose to arrange herself in an armchair nearby. No one offered Briggs a seat, and after a prolonged moment in which she waited expectantly—and in vain—she silently chose another seat close by.

As Alfred retreated from the room, satisfied with the look that Leslie and Annabeth had exchanged, a look which had silently established a closing of ranks, he heard Annabeth begin what could only be a difficult conversation.

"Timmy, why don't you tell me about the people you're living with?" Annabeth asked this as she smoothed down his hair, wishing she could smooth down the endless road of their obstacles with as much ease.

The child shrugged, overcome with one of the periodical fits of shyness that overcome toddlers in uncertain situations. His hand stole up to his mouth, and he began to suck his thumb. It was an old, familiar action, and all the more comforting to him for that reason. Annabeth knew this—but she also recalled, with a pang of sorrow, Donna's pride and triumph of having trained him to overcome the habit. "Hey there," she told him softly, gently tugging at the offending hand, "No thumbs, remember? Mommy doesn't like you doing that."

It was the wrong thing to have said, and the wrong tense to have said it in, and both mistakes caught Timmy's attention. "Where's Mommy?"

_Damned good question. _This bitter thought passed through Annabeth's brain before she pushed it back down again, along with all the other old grievances. There could be none of any of that now, not with Timmy in her care. "Mommy can't be here any more, Timmy."

He nodded once, and then, with obvious reluctance, pulled his thumb away from his mouth and then snuggled close against Annabeth's breast. She held him right and rocked him back and forth and thought, woefully, of the twists of fate that had brought them to this point. How to explain to Timmy all the turns of the path that had brought them here? How to adequately explain to Timmy that, in losing his mother, he had gained a sister? _And how could that ever seem like a worthy exchange?_

* * *

Slowly, the painful, awkward visit passed—first with the aid of the miraculous tea that Alfred concocted and presented to them. In addition to the normal delights that he presented to the adults, he managed to conjure up all sorts of unlikely confections for boy gobbled down peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, followed by some Hostess cupcakes (here Annabeth and Leslie had exchanged looks of silent consternation; how on earth had Alfred managed to come up with those?), followed by homemade caramel corn and then, finally, chocolate milk.

And then, in addition to these culinary indulgences, Alfred performed one more miracle. As Timmy was polishing off his second glass of chocolate milk, he happened to notice Alfred pulling from underneath a credenza a couple of colorful boxes. His eyes widened in delight when Alfred confirmed what he saw. "Do you like Legos, Timmy?"

In answer, the young boy flung himself off the couch and across the room, and in a matter of moments, the 18th century Ottoman rug was obscured by close to a hundred Lego blocks.

"I think my work here is done," Alfred told the women. "If you'll excuse me." He gathered the various abandoned dishes and tea cups, but as he began to head out of the room, a belligerent voice arrested his departure.

"Where are you going?"

Alfred started at Briggs for a moment, carefully weighing his distinctive distaste for her against the pleading message he knew was in Annabeth's eyes. _Don't antagonize her,_ her eyes pleaded, _Just answer her._

So, for the sake of Annabeth and Timmy, he answered pleasantly, "Just to the kitchens. Master Wayne is entertaining tonight, and the caterers should be coming soon."

Unexpectedly, Clara Briggs seized upon these words with zeal. " I see. Does Master Wayne entertain often?" As she asked this, she leaned over and reached into her bag, and to Annabeth's horror, she pulled out a pen and notepad. Without waiting from a response from Alfred, she began scribbling away.

Alfred's eyes narrowed in uncharacteristic hostility as the implications of her words and actions struck him. Only a glance at Annabeth's white, pinched face forestalled him from delivering a sharp, angry response; the final answer he gave her was courteou,s yet revealed very little. "He entertains only the same amount, more or less, as the others in his income bracket. His social activities these days tend mostly towards business and philanthropic pursuits." He saw Brigg's lips part in preparation of another question. "If you'll excuse me."

He ducked out of the room before any more intrusive questions could be lobbed his way. He felt terrible, abandoning Annabeth to what he had no doubt would be a terribly invasive interrogation—but he knew his presence good only do more harm than good. With a sigh and grimace of resignation, he headed back to the kitchen to continue planning the evening's dinner party. It was, perhaps, the one thing left in this day that still had the potential to be a success.

* * *

Within the library, Leslie found herself becoming the reluctant witness to two simultaneous, epic battles.

Briggs was waging a determined campaign to discomfit Annabeth in any way she could—abrupt and invasive questions, lightning-fast changes in subject, subtly hostile remarks and interjections, and evasive non-responses to Annabeth's own questions. Anything that had the potential to psychologically rattle Annabeth, Briggs was trying. Annabeth's own battle was more complex, and all the more exhausting because of its complexity. She found herself on the defensive, struggling to pick her way through this minefield, struggling to keep her cool, struggling to anticipate Briggs' next attack, all the while trying to give Timothy the attention he needed. Leslie could only sip silently at her now-cold cup of tea, wanting very much to help, but also knowing it could do no good.

And then, Briggs launched a particular barrage to let them know that the gloves were coming off.

Annabeth had gotten down on the floor with Timmy, and was helping him put together his building blocks. "You have blocks where you live now, Timmy?"

Silently, he nodded.

"Is the family you're living with nice?"

Before Timmy could answer, Briggs had leapt into the conversation. "Of course Timmy's foster family is very nice. They adore him. They live up in Poplar Heights—the suburb just north of Gotham. Do you know it?" Her tone indicated that she had no doubt that _of course _Annabeth wouldn't know of it.

"Of course I know it," Annabeth answered sweetly. "At Safe Haven, we've sheltered a lot of young women who grew up there."

Briggs wasn't going to be trumped by Annabeth's implications, and she continued on. "Gotham's foster system has a policy of only two-parent homes, did you know? And our adoption rate is very high."

Annabeth clenched her jaw as she formulated a response. She felt two sets of eyes upon her as she did this—Leslie's, mutely sympathetic, and Briggs', suspicious and probing. And then, too, she noticed Timmy's eyes upon her as well, wide and anxious. He didn't understand the atmosphere, of course, but he felt it, nonetheless.

"Two-parent home, eh? My word, things have changed." Annabeth gave Briggs a pointed look. "As I'm sure your research on me will tell you, that wasn't a luxury Gotham spent much time worrying about when I was in the foster system."

"Things have changed," Briggs said smugly. "And while it's unfortunate, the dysfunctions of the foster system that dictated your _childhood_ can't explain the dysfunctions of your _adulthood_." She smiled grimly as she saw, from the stunned, hurt look on Annabeth's face, that she had struck home.

Here, at last, Leslie intervened. "You know, Timmy's had quite a bit of sugar. What do you say I take him to one of the guest rooms for an N-A-P? That way you two can discuss business. I'll keep an eye on him. I'm sure you can trust _me _without your supervision."

Briggs chose to ignore Leslie's nasty tone. "Yes, that would be lovely. You can leave the room to Annabeth and I so that we can talk."

With hungry eyes, Annabeth watched as Leslie took Timmy's hand and gently led him from the room—she hated to let him out of her sight, but she knew that he could not be there to witness the conversation that was about to transpire.

Scarcely had the door been closed before Annabeth launched straight to the heart of the matter. Subtlety had never been her strong point, and she was not going to waste valuable resources on a skill that she could not develop at a moment's notice. "Leaving aside your incredibly offensive remarks, how about you just come out and tell me: how is Timmy doing, truly? And when may I assume guardianship?"

Briggs looked bored by this straightforward approach. "Timmy's in good hands with his foster family."

"That's not an answer," Annabeth said flatly. "That tells me absolutely nothing. Is he in counseling? Has he resumed preschool? Is he often upset? Does he understand what happened?"

"These are questions which you may ask, but I am not at liberty to say." Briggs could not help but to look slightly gleeful at the power she felt from withholding answers. "You have no confirmed legal sway over Timothy Drake as of right now, and so are not entitled to information. As for you assuming guardianship of him—well, that depends."

"Depends on _what?"_

"On the results of my investigation."

Annabeth had been prepared for this, but the words still kicked her in the gut. "Just what are you _investigating_?"

"Your ability to provide Timothy Drake with adequate parenting and a stable home environment." Having decided to be forthcoming at last, Briggs now had the bit between her teeth. "We've received reports that we find worrisome—there are claims that, given your various traumas and current lifestyle, you won't be able to provide Timmy with what he needs to have a healthy and thriving childhood."

"My _'past traumas'," _Annabeth spat,_ "_as you put it, can be in large part attributed to the department _you_ represent. As for my 'present lifestyle', just where do you get off-"

"It appears that you are cohabiting with Bruce Wayne, which is hardly a ringing endorsement for morality, stability, and positive family values. And if you _aren't,_ which I find difficult to believe, then you are living in Bordertown, an area of Gotham which is situated perilously close to the inner city. Furthermore, it appears that your work often occupies up to sixty hours of your time each week. How on earth do you expect to provide Timmy with a suitable home? We have to act in the best interests of the child," she added, clearly indicating that this was an afterthought that didn't really matter too much.

"The best interests of the child...?" Annabeth shook her head in incredulity. "Do you forget, I know your language inside out. If you think that playing lip-service to them is going to intimidate _me, _you've obviously not done your research. What's '_in the best interests of the child' _is for him to resume a stable existence with his sole remaining blood relative."

"_That _is merely _your _opinion. And as long as you and Timothy Drake reside in the jurisdiction of Gotham, you _will _be subject to the legal processes which govern this jurisdiction. If you have any objection to this, I think it's time you retain legal counsel."

"Count on it," Annabeth snapped. Even as she said it, she despaired of her situation: of course, there was no question of her getting a lawyer. What little cash savings she had would be devoured in less than a month of legal battles with the notoriously slow and uncooperative Gotham government. She would not accept help from Bruce—and even if she could, it would be impossible; it would only tie her further to him and therefore make him subject to the investigations and scrutiny she was about to undergo.

Briggs smiled, as though she knew exactly the predicament Annabeth now found herself in. "Did you wish to commence my first investigative interview now? Or did you want to postpone until you can consult with an attorney?"

Postponing meant more time to strategize—but it meant prolonging Timmy's tenure in a foster home. Annabeth didn't give a damn how much Briggs talked up the foster homes now; she wasn't about to trust her only immediate kin to that system a second longer than she had to. She was backed into a corner, and she knew it.

"Let's start the interview now."

* * *

Close to an hour later, Briggs was finally finished. She closed her notepad, capped her pen, and smiled at Annabeth; having won that particular battle, she could afford to be magnanimous. "That should be enough to get us started."

Annabeth didn't answer. She was exhausted, mentally, emotionally, intellectually, physically. Briggs had fired what seemed like hundreds of questions at her, asking about everything in her life, from her work to her social life, from her neighborhood to her condo building. Most devastating were her explorations into Annabeth's long-ago past, most of which had been spent in the same foster system that Briggs now represented. She didn't doubt the wretched woman knew every inch of her old files; her interrogation had been, simply, to force Annabeth to re-live it, to see if she would now lie or obfuscate or commit any dishonesty that she could then use against Annabeth.

A headache, a truly grinding, pounding headache, was beginning to lodge itself into her skull. At this point, Annabeth wanted nothing more than to get rid of Briggs and retreat to her room. "Shall we see where Leslie took Timmy to?"

"No need." Leslie's voice, unexpected but not unwelcome, pulled both Annabeth and Briggs' eyes to the doorway, where she stood with Timmy. "Timmy's nap was short-lived, and he decided it was time to find 'Ann-Beth.'"

"Good timing." Briggs rose and strode towards them. "It's time to go, Timmy. You need to say good-bye to Annabeth."

His reaction came as a surprise to no one, but it made it no easier for them to witness. "NO! _NO NO NO!" _He tore away from Leslie and darted towards Annabeth, tears already starting to form in his eyes. "_Don't wanna go! ANN-BETH!"_

Briggs caught him before he could reach Annabeth. "Yes, Timmy. Time to go. Wave good-bye."

_To hell with that. _Annabeth strode over to them and knelt down so that she was on eye-level with Timmy. "Hey, sweetie. It's okay. You'll see me again really soon, alright? I promise. It's okay."

Seeing his savior so close by spurred Timmy into action. He tore away from Briggs and flung himself at Annabeth. Without thinking, she gathered him into her arms and held him close, feeling his arms as they wrapped themselves, koala-like, around her neck. His tiny body convulsed with sobs that were steadily rising in crescendo. Annabeth's own chest hitched as the first involuntary sob escaped and lodged itself in her throat. But already, Briggs was prying Timmy away, making no attempt to hide the disapproving look she gave Annabeth.

"NO! _NO! ANN-BETH!"_

"It's okay, Timmy," Annabeth managed to choke out. "Be a good boy. I'll see you soon. I _promise."_

Over the sounds of Timmy's screams, Briggs managed to make herself heard. "We'll see ourselves out. Don't follow us. The longer we draw this out, the more upset he'll become. Stay here—don't make it worse."

Annabeth nodded, too upset to speak. She wrapped her arms around herself—as though she were attempting to hold herself in place, or restrain herself from ripping Timmy from Briggs' possession.

And so, Briggs and her inconsolable charge departed, and as they did, Timmy's screams changed—he began crying not for Annabeth, but for _Mommy. _Only Leslie's hand, suddenly gripping her arm, holding her back, kept her from following them. "_Don't. _Don't make it harder."

With Timmy no longer present, requiring her to put on a brave front, Annabeth collapsed. She _crumbled. _She sank into the nearest chair and began crying as hard as Timmy had been just a few minutes before. Leslie said nothing, offered no words of comfort. She could only gently rub Annabeth's back and let her cry, and allow her the time to accept this latest, brutal blow.

* * *

_**Author's Message, Edited 7/20/2012**_

_**I'm in the middle of writing the penultimate chapter, but I felt this message took precedence. I've taken down my original author's note. In the aftermath of what happened in Colorado-which occurred after I posted this chapter-I feel like I should say something.**_

_**All day, I've been troubled. It's not that "it could have been me." That much is obvious. It could have been any of us. And maybe someday it will be. The randomness of Aurora can and maybe will repeat itself-in Bloomington, Indiana; or Poughkeepsie, New York; or Valmora, New Mexico. Or Canberra, Australia, or Reeth, England, or Antananarivo, your town. Or my town. Or wherever. It could have been me, it could have been you, it could have been us. ****We are all of us fans of something or other, all of us movie-goers, all of us potential victims. And while we are still alive today, in a way, it was us. **_

_**I repeat, we are still alive. I do not intend to minimize what happened to those who were actually there. You and I are still alive, so in that way, it wasn't us. But the potential is there, and the fear is there. And the people in that theatre were part of OUR community. They were our people. They were fans enough to be watching the movie at midnight, just as I have been fan enough to write this goddamned story for four years, just as you have been fan enough to be on this site to begin with. This was our community, and so I mourn, not because it could have been me or you, but because the victims were part of our tribe. They may not have read our stories, but they shared our passion.**_

_**My love and prayers and thoughts go out to the families and friends and recovering victims; my thanks and admiration go out to the emergency personnel and the "everyday heroes" that I know were born by and during this event. I salute you all, and I honor you. And for those who died, I know this: The Dark Knight Rises is playing in heaven right now, and the popcorn won't make you fat.**_

_**And I'll leave with this thought: the Batman is appalled. He eschews guns, for pity's sake.**_

_**All My Love, as a human first, and only after then as an American, a writer, a female, and a fellow foot-soldier in life, **_

_**-Anonymous2004, AKA Melissa**_


	57. Chapter 57

"So what happened?"

Leslie was in the kitchen, perched at the center island, drinking another cup of tea as Alfred regarded her with his steady gaze and waited for her to gather her thoughts. She didn't answer right away, mostly because she wasn't sure how. What _had _happened? For much of the visit, she hadn't been in the room with Annabeth and Briggs, but she had witnessed enough of the social worker's posturing to surmise a great deal. She idly stirred her tea and then sipped, trying to buy time as she put her thoughts together.

"I think Briggs is going to make Annabeth's life quite miserable," she said finally. "I think she's going to investigate and interrogate and insinuate, and I think she's going to try very hard to keep Annabeth from getting custody of that little boy."

"But _why? _That's what I cannot fathom. And why now?"

"I've got a hunch."

Alfred looked past Leslie's shoulder, and Leslie turned around. Bruce had been standing in the doorway, and he now stepped into the room. "Sorry to interrupt. I just got back from the city. Jessica Waterhouse—she and her partner will be joining us for the dinner tonight, by the way—told me as soon as it hit the news feeds. A judge allowed Seth Percival to post bail today."

Appalled, Leslie and Alfred stared at him. Leslie was the first to find her voice, and not surprisingly, her focus was not on Seth Percival. "Where _were _you today? Was it truly necessary for you to be absent?"

Bruce chose to ignore this question, and instead turned to Alfred. "Percival's going to cause trouble. It's inevitable."

"You think that man had something to do with the social worker who came out today?" Alfred's voice expressed doubt, but even as he spoke, he knew what the answer would be. Bruce was very rarely wrong in his instincts.

"It depends. How did the visit go?"

Bruce had him there. "It was rough," Alfred admitted. "Annabeth could tell you more, but she's upstairs, resting, right now. Leslie was there for more of it than was I."

Bruce looked at Leslie searchingly, trying to extract more information, but she merely compressed her lips. He'd be getting no more information from her, that was obvious. She was deeply disgruntled.

"I went to the city because I had to get some work done," Bruce finally explained to her. "Lucius and Jessica were helping me strong-arm some last minute guests."

Leslie simply took another sip of her tea; her damning silence spoke volumes. She wouldn't dream of expressing it, but it was her opinion that Bruce's dinner party was ill-advised. What had he been thinking, with Annabeth just now getting back on her feet?

Sighing noisily, Bruce turned his attention back to Alfred. "Do you have a minute? I thought we could head into the dining room and discuss guest seatings, who we place where, that kind of thing."

Bruce had given Alfred that look too many times for him to mis-read it now, and so, with alacrity, he responded. "I was just going through the wine accounts, selecting some bottles to go with dinner. It can wait. Leslie, my dear, will you excuse us?"

She merely nodded; she wanted to be sour at Alfred, but her innate fairness compelled her to reserve her ire only for Bruce. Tactfully ignoring her disapproval, they left her in the kitchen, sipping her tea and stewing in her thoughts.

Of course, Bruce had no desire or intention to discuss where to seat the dinner guests. The two men walked right past the dining room, and on to the study. Once inside, Bruce closed the door and even locked it; it was only after that that he got straight to the heart of what was on his mind. "Alfred, have you been monitoring the police scanners lately?"

"No, Master Wayne. Not since you decided we should refrain for a while, given the events of the past month."

"Start doing it again."

"Now?"

"Now," Bruce confirmed. "You know that pager that we set up? The one that looks like it's from 1998? Page me if something comes up. And how long would it take to hack into Timmy's files with the CPS and Social Services?"

"A day or two, I would think." Alfred took in Bruce's tense posture, his almost-angry expression. "Is Seth Percival really going to cause problems?"

"I think he already has. He's a hateful bastard, and he won't want Annabeth to come out on top."

Alfred studied Bruce, but the younger man's face reflected nothing but the implacable will that Alfred had long ago learned to accept. Part of his acceptance stemmed from years of ingrained devotion to the Wayne family, but another, newer part of his acceptance stemmed from a certain maddening knowledge that Bruce possessed a keen instinct that rarely was proved wrong, particularly when the instinct was related to unhappy things.

_Unhappy things. _On cue, Alfred's thoughts drifted to Annabeth, who was even now resting off her latest unhappiness upstairs. "Do you really think Percival's behind this?"

Bruce nodded. "Aside from his pathological misogyny—although that's redundant, what misogyny isn't pathological?—he's a shrewd opponent and a nasty enemy to have. He hates Annabeth, and while he won't physically harm her, he'll try to destroy her all the same."

* * *

As much as they wanted to believe Annabeth was resting, their hopes were misguided. She was lying down, but that was where any resemblance to resting ended, for her eyes were wide open and her mind was racing. There was no actual rest, and perhaps there would never be again.

Annabeth rolled over onto her side and burrowed down deep into the bedding, hoping against hope that somehow, the downy softness of the duvet could protect her from the harsh reality of her current situation. At the same time, a few hot tears broke free from her eyes and trickled down to wet the pillow. But suddenly, absurdly, the luxury of her surroundings infuriated her. What the fuck was she doing here, living sequestered in a palace, while her carefully, painstakingly-constructed life was collapsing around her? Ridiculous!

_No, _a fair, sane voice whispered in her head. _It's complicated all around, but trying to shift blame onto Bruce's shoulders for this latest shitstorm isn't right. He's not the cause of it. But he could soon be suffering the consequences. _

He'd want to help, of course; Annabeth had no doubt that Bruce would immediately sniff out the best attorney in Gotham, and instruct that they never send her a bill. But it would be his involvement that could complicate the issue to the point of disaster. Briggs had made that clear, hadn't she? Bruce's presence in her life could be used as an argument against her having custody of Timmy. Annabeth knew, as well as any Gotham native, of the shenanigans, the wild parties, the acquaintances of dubious morals, the notoriety that Bruce had so carefully cultivated; the only difference was that she now saw them for the farce they were. _But it wasn't like that to the rest of Gotham_. And she knew that so long as she and Bruce were romantically linked, she was arming Briggs with a potentially lethal weapon, and not even the best attorney could be certain of disarming the self-righteous social worker.

There was another complication: if Bruce could not be budged from the place he had taken by her side, Briggs could always begin scrutinizing _him _more thoroughly—not just as Annabeth's gadabout boyfriend, but as a person, in his own right, with his own life beyond the public sphere. Two lives, actually—one being highly secret, alarmingly violent, and absolutely criminal. How much sniffing and snooping would Briggs have to do before she turned up anything that could jeopardize Bruce and his work? It would probably be beyond her abilities, but she could still hamper his movements, make life uncomfortable, keep him from his work. And there was always the risk, however remote, of discovery.

_Dammit! _No matter which way she turned, Annabeth encountered another obstacle that merely sent her deeper into the maze. With this unhappy realization at the fore of her brain, she finally managed to slip into a fitful doze. _May as well try to get some rest while I can. It's going to be a long night._

* * *

"Eldest, I was hoping you'd be able to do me a favor."

Barbara Gordon Jr. gazed at her father over the top of her glasses—silly, thick-framed glasses they were, too, one of the few affectations of hipsterdom she'd cop to—at her father. Jim Gordon stood halfway down the stairs, just barely visible, just barely in her basement. He preferred not to come down there too often; he told Barbara it was because he wanted to respect her privacy, but she suspected that he was also slightly baffled by the many electronics and books that filled the room. Barbara was equal parts bookworm and gearhead; in her admittedly scant spare time, she was usually buried in a book or under a pile of wires and computer hardware.

Today, it was a book that was claiming her attention, but she set it aside readily enough. "What's up, Pops?"

"Are you free this evening?"

Barbara wrinkled her nose. "I wasn't supposed to be, but the dude I had a date with cancelled a couple of hours ago. At least he had the courtesy to tell me..." Seeing her father's vaguely amused expression, she returned to the matter at hand. "Why?"

"I've got a dinner that I've been invited to. That _we've _been invited to, actually." He noticed her lack of immediate enthusiasm, and continued on persuasively, "They were most insistent I pass the invitation on to you."

"Who's 'they,' anyway?"

"Bruce Wayne and Annabeth de Burgh. I gather they're having a dinner party out at their place in the Palisades, for people who'd be potentially interested in getting involved with Safe Haven."

"God, that place really is the cause du jour, isn't it? Sounds potentially tedious...but also potentially fascinating. I've always wondered, Dad, what's de Burgh doing with Wayne? She doesn't seem to suffer fools, and I got the impression that he's a bit of an ass-hat."

Gordon managed to hide his smile. "The man's odd, I'll grant you that, but I think he's got a heart of gold, and for that, I think Annabeth de Burgh will forgive any number of sins. Anyway, I get the impression that yours is the presence they're truly hoping for. They invited me for the sake of courtesy and propriety."

"'Propriety?'" Now Barbara did wrinkle up her nose at this word. "God, what's the world coming to? Alright, I'll come with you. But what about Jimmy and Hannah? It was your night with them."

"I already called the baby-sitter. She can come in tonight."

Barbara still was not persuaded, but she was close. Honestly, she has been a bit relieved that her date had fallen through...it was rare for her to have a night in. But the thought of a gourmet meal was tempting...and Annabeth de Burgh _was _a rather intriguing character...And then she remembered the vintage number she had picked up at the thrift store earlier in the week, a 50s=era cocktail dress in a particularly horrifying shade of pink. _It would be perfect._

"I'll go."

* * *

"Will you go?"

Victoria Leigh Winston had the courtesy of asking this of her husband, but both she and Gregory knew it to be just that—a courtesy. Many years ago, he had entrusted their social calendar to his wife, and she had never once given him cause to complain.

Now Gregory looked up from the mail he had been sorting through. "I don't see why not. It's always rather dull around here in January, But I thought Wayne always disappears off to Aruba at this time of year?"

"He disappears, that much is true. But who's to say he goes to Aruba? Anyway, I understand that Annabeth is still staying there, so that probably curtails any swanning off he'd like to do. Alfred apologized for the short notice, but I gather it's all rather important for getting that women's shelter put back together. Dinner will be at seven."

"So early? Lord, Wayne's soirees never used to start that early. Annabeth must have really domesticated him."

"Perhaps they should just move the shelter to Wayne Manor." Victoria allowed a small smile at this flight of fancy, and then headed off to sort out an outfit for the evening.

* * *

The vodka tonic was already mostly gone, but Jessica Waterhouse had not yet fully relaxed. She gazed morosely at her dwindling drink and sighed. "It's _aggravating. _I work 'round the clock for the man already, and now I have to socialize with him as well?"

She was sprawled out in a capacious armchair, her leather pumps lying on the floor, under her feet that were slung over the armrest. She took another sip of her vodka tonic, and frowned as the ice rattled at the bottom of her now-empty glass. But her partner Sandra, long-attuned to her needs, had already prepared her another, which she now passed to her. Then she sat on the stool next to the armchair and began to rub Jessica's weary feet.

Jessica smiled her gratitude, and then carried on. "I spent most of the damned day on the phone with this person or that person, trying to round up enough guests for this dinner party of his, and _then _he poked his head out of his office and tells me that I'm to come, too, and to bring you. _You're _the civil rights attorney, why couldn't he just invite you and leave me alone?"

"That would have been rude, even by Bruce Wayne's questionable standards of courtesy."

"Lovely. So my boss decided to develop some manners today, of all days."

Ever the attorney, Sandra tried to be a devil's advocate. "C'mon, that's not fair. You said he's usually pretty nice."

"I know. And you're right. I'm just bitching at this point. But _then, _all hell breaks loose. Vicki Vale—you know her, that reporter that Wayne's in thick with—called and directed me to the newsfeeds. That asshole that tried to kill Annabeth de Burgh? Well, he's out on bail. Vale was calling to get Wayne's views."

"I heard about that." Sandra had decided this conversation had come to the point where she needed something to fortify her as well, so she took the glass from Jessica and took a hefty gulp of its dregs. "Percival's lead attorney is a soulless wreck, but she's good at what she does. And she knows the right judges. How'd Wayne take it?"

"Not well. I've told you what happens when he gets pissed off. He goes all quiet and his eyes—well, they get a little spooky."

Sandra couldn't help herself. She laughed. "Spooky? Jessica, this is _Bruce Wayne _we're talking about."

"I mean it, Sandra. You don't cross Bruce Wayne. I know you guys don't see it, but he's totally different at work sometimes."

"I'm sure when he's on the wagon, he's a hard worker. But when he's off the wagon, it's anybody's guess what he'll get into. Anyway, we'll go tonight. We can't let Bruce Wayne hog up _all _the opportunities for civic engagement."

* * *

Cocktails at 7 that evening, dinner at 8. By 7, everyone had shown up—Victoria and Gregory, Jessica and Sandra, Maya and her fiance Rush, Katie Moriarty and her husband the President of Gotham, a few other engaged and/or wealthy and/or powerful citizens. Jim Gordon and his daughter Barbara were the last to arrive. Alfred was buried down in the Cave, monitoring the police channels, so Bruce answered the doorbell himself

"Commissioner Gordon!" He offered Gordon a hearty handshake. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Not at all..." Gordon drifted off as Bruce turned his attention to Barbara and beheld her in all of her compelling oddness. She was kitted out in a dress that was a godawfully ugly color, but admittedly went far towards flattering her less-than-svelte figure, and Gordon could see that Bruce was admiring, perhaps against his own better judgment. "You remember my daughter Barbara?"

Gordon didn't expect Bruce to begin flirting with Barbara, not right under his own nose, and certainly not with Annabeth de Burgh so firmly in the picture. But he also didn't expect the strange look that Bruce gave her, either. Not hostile, exactly, but definitely speculative. Almost wary. "Miss Gordon, nice to see you again." His voice was respectfully polite, but contained none of the previous warmth with which he had addressed Gordon.

Either Barbara didn't notice, or else she didn't give a jolly damn. "Not Miss Gordon. Barbara's fine. And thank you for inviting us. But where's your sidekick Alfred? Isn't he normally on door duty?"

Bruce waved vaguely. "He's got a lot to do tonight. I help out where I'm needed. Come in and have a drink."

He drifted away, not bothering to close the front door; that was left for a uniformed woman—clearly hired waitstaff—to attend to. A second person in uniform relieved them of their coats, and a third promptly approached with a tray bearing flutes of champagne.

Gordon and his daughter glanced at each other, and each read in the other's eyes identical puzzlement. But Barbara was the first to move on. "He's a weirdo, Pops. But he's got good taste in champagne. Bottoms up!"

* * *

Alfred was not the only person whose absence was noted—missing as well was Annabeth de Burgh. Everyone noticed, of course, although none commented—none except, predictably, Barbara Gordon. She had the necessary impertinence to remark on it, but also, thankfully, the necessary common sense to wait until Bruce was alone before she did so. After watching him meander away, mid-conversation, from Gregory and Victoria, Barbara waylaid him. "Aren't you missing someone?"

Bruce managed to keep the grimace off his face. Alfred had been insistent that they invite both Gordon and his daughter, and Bruce had reluctantly conceded. A certain amount of stubborn pride prevented him from admitting that it was because Barbara had saved his skin, but both he and Alfred knew it. His aversion to Barbara was a multi-layered thing; he knew her to be too observant, too smart for her own good; she stood in awe of nothing and no one. Plus, she was simply a pain in the ass.

None of Bruce's opinions were evident as he smiled and responded with as much pleasantness as he could muster. "She was feeling a bit under the weather earlier this afternoon, and she decided to rest before dinner."

"Poor Annabeth." Barbara's sympathy was both quick and genuine. "She's really been to hell and back, hasn't she? But then, so have you. Are you holding up alright?"

It was an oblique reference to Annabeth's miscarriage, and to his annoyance, Bruce found himself touched by her innocent concern and surprising tact. But he resented her intrusiveness, too. For lack of any adequate response, he shrugged, and this time, he didn't bother to hide his grimace.

Barbara either understood, or else saw no need for him to extrapolate. She glanced at her watch. "Well, it's past seven. Did you want me to go get Annabeth?"

The thought of Barbara running around the Manor unsupervised was enough to make Bruce's blood run cold. "Why don't we go get her together?" he suggested, offering her his arm. "That way, I can show you some of the family heirlooms."

"Oh!" Barbara's eyes danced with merriment. "Are they all very old?"

"They are. Some have been in the family a whole five months."

* * *

If Annabeth was surprised to open her door and see both Bruce and Barbara standing on her threshold, her expression didn't show it. In fact, her face revealed nothing other than red, puffy eyes and a wanness that went beyond recent poor health. Bruce glanced back and forth from Annabeth to Barbara, but Barbara revealed neither surprise nor dismay.

"Hey, Annabeth. Long time no see. Bruce..." Barbara gently unlinked her arm from Bruce's and moved towards Annabeth, "would it be possible for you to keep the crowd entertained for a while?"

Bruce could build bombs and dismantle them with equal skill and ease; he could run a mile in less than seven minutes; he could fly planes and beat a pack of ninjas and actually read James Joyce for fun, but even he had to acknowledge that Annabeth needed assistance that he quite simply lacked the skills—to say nothing of the estrogen—to give. With a tender but distracted smile at Annabeth, he left her in Barbara's surprisingly capable hands.

There was little time to waste on anything other than the barest of courtesy. Barbara marched past Annabeth into the bathroom, turned on the sink faucet, and wet a washcloth with cold water. Tossing this to Annabeth, she gave terse instructions. "Wash your face and then put this over your eyes." Not waiting to see if Annabeth obeyed, she marched back into the bedroom and proceeded to turn on every light she could find. "We need to see what we're working with."

Five minutes later, she had Annabeth sitting at the beautiful vanity table as she vigorously ran a brush through her hair. One stroke, two strokes, three...not stopping until she reached one hundred, Barbara bullied Annabeth's lank hair into a miraculously gleaming mass of chestnut locks. "We'll pull it up into a ponytail. You'll look about twelve, but at least you'll look perky, too."

Her practical, brisk kindness nearly set Annabeth off again—she looked up at Barbara, her eyes filling, her lip trembling. Recognizing this as a potentially disastrous moment, Barbara put her hand on Annabeth's shoulder and squeezed, but not gently, digging her fingers in and capturing Annabeth's attention. "Whatever it is, Annabeth, _keep it together. _I mean it. You need to get down there and do your thing—there's no time to fall apart right now. Do not, and I mean _do not, _lose your shit."

It would have appalled Bruce to realize it, but Barbara's tough love bore a striking resemblance to Annabeth's style, and so her injunction resonated soundly enough to command obedience. In her seat, she unconsciously straightened her defeated posture and swallowed back the surge of lowly, fearful grief. Barbara saw and nodded approvingly, and there was something in the younger woman's approbation that stiffened Annabeth's spine even more.

"Good woman," Barbara smiled. "Now, what are the chances of there being any PBR tonight?"

* * *

Predictably enough, there were no hipster beers gracing the dinner-table. And while Alfred's absence was conspicuous, his presence could be accounted for in the careful selection of food and the flawless pairings of wine. As the impassive, impeccable waitstaff marched out course after course, a new type of freshly decanted wine followed it.

"Not having anything to drink tonight, Commissioner?" Bruce asked off-handedly, early on in the dinner. Gordon was to his immediate right, and the question could be asked with simple discretion.

"Nothing tonight," Gordon agreed. "I drove myself out here, and I'll have to drive myself back. And anyway, I'm never _really _off duty."

"Especially on an evening like this," interjected Victoria, seated to Bruce's left, across from Gordon. She dispelled any ambiguity with her next statement. "With that _little man _out of jail"—no one needed to inquire who she meant— "who knows what he'll get into next? I couldn't imagine that Annabeth would be able to sleep a wink."

All three of them looked down at the far end of the table, where Annabeth sat, talking occasionally with Gregory and more often—and animatedly—with Barbara. Although Bruce's dining companions were too kind to say it, they all had reached the same conclusion—it already appeared as though Annabeth wasn't sleeping a wink.

Gordon cleared his throat and desperately cat about for an alternative subject which didn't focus on Annabeth's fragile health, Seth Percival's presence outside of jail, or his own government's accounting for it. Fortunately, Victoria's ever-attuned social antenna picked up on his discomfort, and she helped him out. "Commissioner, your daughter certainly is quite an interesting young lady. What does she do?"

Here was a subject upon which Gordon could converse with ease. "Right now, she's enrolled in grad school, getting her PhD. And then there's her other hobby," he added ruefully. "She's a bit of a Batman-stalker.

Bruce snorted. "I would have thought she'd be too well-adjusted to waste much time on something that nerdy."

From further down the table, Barbara's sharp ears picked up on this conversation, and she spoke up. "It's not nerdy. Just esoteric. Although," she added peevishly, "he's not made it easy for me, lately. Not a sighting for weeks!"

Now Sandra, Jessica Waterhouse's partner, chimed in. In her low yet distinctive voice, she gave them all something to think about. "I don't know that I actually believe the Batman exists, but if he does, now would be a good time for him to start making the rounds. My personal assistant passed around the crime blotter and police stats this morning—can you believe, since New Year's, rapes and muggings are up? So are murders—already seven this month alone."

They fell into a respectful silence, the silence of all relatively-well-off people who are confronted with the gross economic disparity and violence that preyed upon their fellow, less-fortunate citizens. And then, once again, it was Victoria who gently steered the conversation back into less tempestuous waters—but not before Annabeth met Bruce's inscrutable gaze for a brief second.

"Speaking of violence in Gotham," Victoria said, "why don't we discuss Safe Haven? I know that it's a very strong concern of yours, Annabeth. And it sounds like there are plenty of opportunities for us to help."

With this perfect set-up, Annabeth and Maya needed little prompting to explain their dilemma: the women, adolescents, and children who were currently scattered across the city, the present lack of leadership, the chaos. "Right now, we can't even _think _of opening again," Annabeth told the table at large. "There's no one to direct day-to-day operations, there's no one to manage the board, there's really no board, even, just Bruce."

"God help you," Gregory interjected,. Bruce simply grinned sheepishly, and even Annabeth allowed a smile.

"So we're dead in the water. Without a board of directors, we can't even think about appointing a head of operations," Annabeth finished up.

"Why not you?" This came from Hugh Lundquist, a very boring man, yet a very conscientious accountant—invited by Bruce for specifically that reason.

"It's not really my skill-set," Annabeth answered him promptly and honestly. "Up until now, I've been more of a foot-soldier than a leader. I just don't have the experience. I could help with recruiting and interviewing—but even then, we have to have a board to make the final decision."

Bit by bit, Annabeth went into more detail about Safe Haven, and as she did, a little more color began to creep into her pale cheeks, and she grew more animated. It reminded Bruce, painfully, of the first time he had met Annabeth, just a few months prior, and she had shown him around her beloved place.

_He had failed her. He had failed them._

Unbidden and unwelcome, this realization was not going to leave Bruce alone any time soon. It settled, heavily, on his shoulders, and there he knew, it would remain. But here was Annabeth, now finished with her spiel, looking at him expectantly.

"It's one of the most interesting things I've ever been involved in," Bruce told the table. "And certainly the worthiest. And god knows, we need help."

Had it been a large group of Gotham's elite, it would have been his use of the word "we" that would have sealed their interest—who would pass up the chance to be on the board of Bruce Wayne's pet project? But he had invited people made of worthier stuff for that particular reason—he wanted board members committed to Safe Haven for the sake of Safe Haven, not for the sake of their own status.

Predictably, Barbara Gordon—perhaps the one with the least resources to spare—was the first to volunteer. "What can I do?" She looked as though she was ready to roll up her sleeves and start working, right then and there, and even Bruce had to smile. And then Hugh Lundquist was falling into line behind Barbara. "You can count me in, too," he said in his quiet, dry way. "I suppose you'll be needing a treasurer?"

Bruce spread his own hands out in a gesture of boyish helplessness. "Hugh, you'd be perfect for treasurer. I can't be trusted with my own money, let alone Safe Haven's. Alfred has to give me an allowance." Then, before anyone could be reminded to ask about his missing butler, he called down the table, "What about you, Gregory?"

But the senator was shaking his head, and his regret seemed genuine. "As much as I want to, I'm already stretched too thin...and it's not the type of thing I'd want to outsource to an aide."

"_I'm _not an aide, Gregory," Victoria interjected briskly, and then said to Bruce, "Wherever you'll have me, there I'll be."

_Political pull. Financial guidance. A connection to the police force. _Annabeth gazed around the table with newly-speculative eyes, seeing for the first time the true potential of her dining companions. Her appreciation only strengthened when Sandra Sondheim added herself to the roster. "You can count me in, too. I need more pro bono work, anyway." But her eyes glowed with passionate zeal as she said this, and there was no need to guess where her altruism lay.

So it went—most of the guests were able and willing to step up and serve Safe Haven however they could. Long-term, they would have to form a different model of governance, perhaps, but for now, it was enough to help them along through the next several tempestuous months. Maya, who had up until now been sitting quietly as she observed the evening unfold, allowed herself to feel the first strong roots of hope seizing her. She looked down the table at Annabeth, and saw the same hope reflected there.

"We'll have to have a board meeting early in the week...until Safe Haven's back open and in business, we can meet at Wayne Towers..." Bruce drifted off as a strange expression settled on his face.

From down the table, Annabeth spoke up. "Bruce?"

"I'm so sorry," Bruce said to the group at large as he abruptly stood up. "I'm suddenly not feeling so well. It's that legendary Wayne family incontinence, you know..." And with that simple lie, he left the room.

_Wayne family incontinence? _Annabeth and Leslie's eyes met, and Annabeth knew that there was at least one other person in the room who wasn't fooled. But Leslie gave Annabeth a faint, rueful smile, and Annabeth knew that, exasperated though the doctor may have been, she wouldn't be the one to question Bruce's story.

But what of the others? Annabeth focused on the other dinner guests, whose reactions ranged from puzzled to amused to resigned—Jessica Waterhouse, in particular, didn't look surprised. Apparently, this wasn't the first time Bruce had left abruptly, and it also wasn't the first time he had used this excuse. .No doubt it was usually Alfred who was left behind to mend the social breaches, but now it was all up to Annabeth to keep the dinner and the evening running smoothly... _What would Alfred do? _ Her eye fell on Barbara, whose face was perhaps the most transparent. She was working hard to keep a thoroughly inappropriate smile off of her face, but there was no hiding the mirth in her eyes.

This helped Annabeth to focus. She motioned for the waiter closest to her. "Next course," she told him quietly, and the young man immediately departed to fulfill her command. This, she felt, would be the best way to proceed: if Bruce could no longer be at his own dinner, there was likely a good reason for it, and so the sooner Annabeth could get rid of them all, the happier, no doubt, he would be—

A piercing, shrill ring interrupted Annabeth's thoughts, and she, along with most everyone else at the table, gazed around, searching for the offending party who had brought their cell phone to dinner.

It was Gordon. He made a gesture of helpless apology, even as he rose from the table. "It's my work phone," he offered by way of explanation, and then hurriedly left the room, presumably to see what fresh disaster was now claiming his attention.

_Wait—wonder if that's what called Bruce away, too. _Annabeth fervently hoped that no one would make the connection, but then, why would they think to? _Leslie. _Annabeth saw the doctor frowning thoughtfully, and so she began to cast about for something, anything to say. But her brain was suddenly numb—

"I'm so sorry," Barbara spoke up just then, addressing the entire group. "Now you see a little of what just about every evening is like at our house." She smiled winningly, and her surprising social skills helped smooth over the moment. A few diners obligingly chuckled, and she continued, "The good part of it is, Dad never knows how awful a cook I really am. He never has the chance to stick around long enough for dinner."

Gregory Winston picked up the thread of indulgent good-humor. "And after all, what kind of police commissioner would he be if he didn't answer his work phone?"

_The kind that Gotham had had all along before Gordon, _was the answer that was no doubt in most everyone's mind, but they were saved from an honest response by Gordon, who re-entered the room just then.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and he did look rather unhappy. "But something's come up back in the city, and I've got to head back now." He looked over at his daughter. "Will you be alright, Eldest?"

"I expected something would come up," Barbara responded smugly. "It's why I came on my own. Go, be a hero."

Her unconcern set the right tone, and so Gordon was able to leave with the minimum of fuss and attention. The arrival of dessert—a beautiful apple charlotte—just then helped as well, and Annabeth gave an approving nod to the waiter as she rose, as unobtrusively as possible, to escort Gordon out.

"I can find my own way," he protested softly as they left the room, but Annabeth only smiled. She had spent enough time with Bruce to know that he wouldn't want Gotham's police commissioner to go _anywhere _in the Manor unattended.

At the front door, he gave her an encouraging smile and a hearty handshake. "Thank you so much for dinner, Annabeth. And please thank Mr. Wayne for me, too. I hope he, uh, feels better."

Her reaction was a masterpiece of fine acting, she thought. Feigning unconcern, Annabeth shrugged and waved off his concern. "He probably drank too much."

"You're a gem." And then Gordon left Annabeth to turn and head back to see to her remaining guests.

* * *

Not long after this, the guests began to depart. Victoria and Gregory, with many thanks, were the first to go, followed quickly by Jessica and Sandra and Hugh. For each one, Annabeth summoned the social grace to smile, make the correct appreciative noises, and the promises to be in touch soon with more information. And after each one left, Annabeth felt a little more of her emotional stamina slip away. It had been an absolutely devastating day, and she was close to the end of her tether. She wanted nothing more than to slip away to a quiet place, and rest, and regroup.

Finally, the only people left were Leslie and Barbara and Maya and her fiance Rush. As Rush helped Maya put on her coat, Maya bubbled with ebullient energy, more than she had felt in what seemed like forever. "It went really well, don't you think? We should be able open up again really soon...we should hold a meeting as soon as possible...do you want me to come out tomorrow to get more work done?"

"Sounds like there's a lot to get done," Barbara interjected before Annabeth had a chance to respond. "Why don't I come out with you? If I'm going to be helping, I may as well start sooner rather than later."

Annabeth was too weary to object. "Works for me. Why don't you and Maya coordinate and come pout together...I'll see you both around ten?"

This was an obvious dismissal, and they were astute enough to realize it. She watched as Rush, Maya, and Barbara headed down the front steps of the house to their vehicles, parked out on the gravel drive. Barbara was the last to leave—she had her jacket to zip, her heels to swap out for boots, her helmet to secure—but finally even she had roared off on her bike, leaving Annabeth alone. Except for—

"That was well-played."

Leslie had joined her side. Leslie, who had become an increasingly invisible, silent presence in recent days, and who was now looking at Annabeth with eyes that saw things with uncomfortable clarity.

Annabeth closed the front doors, and it was then just the two of them in the Entrance Hall. "You think?"

"I do. You certainly know how to utilize the assets you have at your disposal. So, where _are _Bruce and Alfred? Alfred never even showed up at all, and Bruce left halfway through dinner."

"I don't know," Annabeth was able to tell her honestly. She had her suspicions, of course, but sharing them with Leslie was out of the question. "Who can guess? Bruce is still a bit of a flibberty-gibbet, and you know Alfred. Wherever Bruce is, Alfred's probably there with him, trying to keep him out of trouble."

"I see." Leslie looked distinctly unhappy with this answer, and it seemed to tip the scales of something that was preying on her mind. "I'm leaving first thing in the morning."

"Going into the city for the day?"

"No." Leslie put a gentle hand on Annabeth's arm. "For good."

Exhausted though she was, Annabeth was now completely at attention. "For good—but, why?"

"I don't belong here. Not anymore." Leslie's voice was sad, but her eyes gleamed determinedly. "You're better, yes, but that's not the only reason. I've no place in Bruce and Alfred's life here, either. And I don't want to stay on where I'm not needed, or where I'm in the way. I don't want to get sucked up into their...life. Their dynamic. I'd just as soon leave now. And to tell you the truth, Annabeth, you should leave too. Before you can't leave at all."

Annabeth didn't answer. She couldn't. She was finally at the end of her tether, and Leslie's words had tapped into something she had been trying desperately not to acknowledge.

"It's been an honor to help you," Leslie continued "I'm only sorry I can't help you with Timmy. All I can tell you is, think outside the box. And be prepared to act fast."

After all they had been through together, a handshake seemed too impersonal, and so Annabeth—normally quite undemonstrative—threw her arms around Leslie and gave her a hug that she hoped would say everything, because the lump in her throat wouldn't let her say a word.


	58. Chapter 58

Once again, less than a month after the initial drama that had occurred, the street on which Safe Haven was located was once more lined with police cars, their flashing lights reflecting off windows and illuminating many dark corners and alleys. Had any criminals or miscreants been attempting to hide in the area, they would have found their efforts quite thoroughly thwarted.

Of course, there were no criminals or miscreants to be found. They had long ago done their work and scampered off—but they had left their calling card.

Detective Montoya and Commissioner Gordon stood side-by-side on the sidewalk, gazing up at the big brownstone building of Safe Haven. Gleaming white and still wet, and with letters easily eight feet high, the simple phrase was quite easily visible, even in the darkness: _Uppity bitches better watch out._

"Motivated little punks, weren't they?" Montoya remarked. "How'd they manage to access the upper stories?"

Gordon didn't bother to answer. For one reason, Montoya's question was rhetorical; for another, the mechanics and logistics of graffiti had always baffled him, too. So instead, he simply continued to take in the words.

The street was as silent and deserted as one could expect in this semi-respectable part of Gotham. Gordon had no illusions about potential witnesses stepping forward—anyone who had seen anything would say nothing and try to forget everything as soon as possibly convenient.

The sudden crackle of one of the patrol cars' radios pulled Gordon's attention away from the building. The noise was coming from Bullock's cruiser, and judging by the burly man's cross face and animated gestures, he was on the receiving end of some interesting information. Soon enough, he joined them and gave an update. "That was headquarters, Commish. Two more reports of vandalism—one at the House of Hope, near the Narrows, the other at Carlisle Place, that shelter near your neighborhood."

Montoya let out a low whistle. Carlisle Place was the largest, nicest, and best-funded shelter in Gotham—and it was also where several of the Safe Haven refugees were being temporarily housed.

But Bullock was still talking. "...and when you count the reports of the other shelters hit earlier tonight, this brings the count to five tonight."

"It's a campaign of intimidation."

The three of them turned to see the Batman emerging from the alley next to Safe Haven. It had been quite a while since he had made an appearance, but the time that had lapsed had done nothing to diminish his imposing presence. It didn't stop Bullock from blustering, however.

"Welcome back to the fold, stranger. Coulda used you a helluva lot more'n you been around." Bullock glared fiercely at the Batman. He was a straight-shooter, and he was a cop who liked things to be cut-and-dry, black-and-white—and so his ambivalence towards the Batman ultimately pissed him off. Jesus, _why _couldn't he just hate the guy, slap some cuffs on him, and have done with it?

Montoya knew how he felt, and at least in part shared his feelings. But she respected the Commissioner and his stance, too. "C'mon, beefcake. Let's check and make sure there's no other damage around the building."

The Batman waited until they were out of earshot before he began to speak again. "Intimidation. It's not a coincidence that Percival was released on bail this morning."

"No," Gordon sighed. "It's definitely no coincidence. And if the rumors I'm hearing are true, Donzetti and le Blanc might be allowed to post bail in another couple of days. My guess is that the three of them will try to harass and intimidate whatever witnesses they can access."

"What about the two key witnesses?"

Gordon thought of the icy, unflappable Trinity, as well as the spunky, obnoxious Stacy. "Both in hiding. They're fine. Not even in Gotham anymore. The feds took over, and we talk with the feds at least twice a day."

"So not in reach." The Batman wasn't necessarily satisfied, but it was at least one less thing to worry about. "What's the damage from tonight?"

"Nothing extensive. A few busted windows at the first place, but they started to tread more softly after that. Now it's just a bunch of graffiti. Honestly, the whole thing has an amateur feel to it."

"Percival's getting petty," the Batman agreed. "And amateurs are probably the only resource he has access to right now. How are you proceeding?"

"Patrol units at all five of the shelters that were hit tonight, and units on their way to four others, just to be on the safe side. But it's not a great use of resources."

"Why?"

"Read the papers. Crime spiked after the New Year—violent crimes up 60 percent from last January, property theft up even more. Part of it is economy-driven, but not all of it. And now I'm having to divert manpower to this during the most crime-infested time we've had of it since the Joker was playing hopscotch around Gotham."

The accusation was unspoken, and perhaps existed only in the Batman's imagination. To distract himself, he turned his attention towards a solution. "Why doesn't Safe Haven re-open?"

Gordon shook his head. "No governing body at the moment. I saw Annabeth de Burgh earlier tonight. She still looks rough, but she's chomping at the bit to get back into action. What are you thinking?"

"All the shelters that were vandalized were housing Safe Haven residents. _They're _the ones Percival is trying to harass. Get them back under one roof and concentrate your manpower there." There was little more that the Batman could do here; the crime had been committed, the solutions presented. "I'll keep an eye on Safe Haven, too," he told Gordon. "It's even more important that we keep an eye on things, since your daughter got involved."

"Meddlesome wretch," Gordon sighed, and it was unclear if he was referring his daughter or the Batman.

* * *

After the Batman took his leave of Gordon, he didn't use the Tumbler to navigate to his next destination. Instead, he flew.

_Jesus, _how long had it been since he had swung from building to building, feeling the night air sweep past him, watching the city lights swirl by in a blur of golden-white blazes? How long since he had last felt this unfettered?

Eventually, he alighted at the top of the 45-story Commerce Complex Tower. He lingered there for quite a while, gazing first to the south, towards downtown, and all its power and wealth, visible even at night and represented so well by the jewel of his own Wayne Tower, outstripping the other skyscrapers by at least ten stories.

Then he took in the more proximate midtown, home to Safe Haven, as well as many middle-class, solid, respectable buildings, as well as the somewhat-less-respectable City Hall and municipal complex. Here was where the majority of Gothamites lived, or else aspired to live.

Further to the north was Bordertown, the little district that clung so desperately to its shabby gentility, always trying to limp its way higher up the social ladder, and always failing because of its nagging (and permanent) proximity to Arkham, and beyond that, the Narrows.

Far to the south was the Naval Tricorner Yards; and far to the north, beyond Bordertown, the suburbs where Janey and Maya and the "bridge-and-tunnel crowd" all lived. But all of them, in Gotham's jurisdiction, just like the Palisades. All of them, in his charge. All of it— the big business, the bustling bourgeoisie, the obscenely rich, and the struggling poor, all of it, in his protection.

_And you've been neglecting them all. _

He didn't even try to ignore the voice of judgment, because he felt it to be true. He _had _been neglecting Gotham as he had tended to Annabeth—and yes, to his own grief and worry—and yet, he could not, would not regret it. But nor could he continue on as he had going. The time for grieving and recovering had passed; now, the need for action was beckoning, and he would answer the summons.

Thought was useless. _Action _was needed, yes. And so he flew through the night, feeling his wind catch in his cape and scour his face, and he let out a fierce, primal shout of release.

* * *

In the Narrows, Maggie McCormick had just tossed the last garbage bag into the dumpster, but she was in no hurry to head back into the tavern, despite the night's cold air. Inside the bar, all would be warm and dark, and there would be the comfort of company, but the montony and muted despair could get a little suffocating. Plus, there was a stray cat that had taken to lurking outside lately, and she wanted to get a closer look at it, see if it was feral, or merely an abandoned housecat, down on its luck. Maggie would die before she'd admit it, but she could do with some company that came in the form of something other than defeated barflies and cantankerous bartenders.

_Speaking of unappealing company..._ "My, my, my." She eyed the Batman, crouched ten feet above her on the ledge of the wall that ran behind the dumpster. "Aren't you the sight for sore eyes?"

He nodded. "How have things been?"

Maggie snorted. "Without you around? I'd say almost dull, but that'd be a lie." Out of habit, she began to pat herself, searching for a pack of cigarettes. "Shit. I'm trying to quit, for the millionth time. I keep forgetting. Anyway, I _wish _things were dull around here. Where've you been, anyway?"

"Busy."

This terse response might have quelled the curiosity of someone younger, or softer, or less experienced than Maggie, but on her, it was wasted. She simply smirked knowingly. "'Busy', right. _Had _to be something important to keep you out of my hair. I guess other folks in this city need you, too."

"True."

The lack of stimulating conversation was the final nail in the coffin of Maggie's flagging resolve, and so she gave an almighty sigh and fished a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket. This was just as well, because after she had lit up and taken a long, satisfying drag, she became much more voluble. "Fact is," she said around a mouthful of smoke, "it's weird. Like the last few months never happened. Once word got out that you busted up the Arrows, the pimps and prostitutes were crawling all over the place, like flies in shit."

"And this is the _positive _outcome."

Maggie gave him a sharp look. From him, this was a speech of epic length, and delivered with sarcasm, too! "Probably positive as far as the hookers are concerned. But there _are _a few less pimps around, at least for the time being. There's still a few, though, and they're the same sleazebags they always were."

"What else?"

"You read the papers. You know the story. Crime's up again. Bar down the street got robbed two nights ago. Fred Worrley, one of my regulars, his daughter was attacked on her way home from work about ten days ago. And there's a couple of runaways doggin' the area, too, the poor shits. Plenty more sorry tales of shitty woe where that came from, but you get the drift. And I haven't seen our Annabeth around. I heard she got caught up in that mess out in midtown. Figured she's still recuperating. Good for her to have a break. And what do you know? Some secular outreach mission set up shop a couple weeks back. Now the whole area's lousy with whores _and _do-gooders." She punctuated this with a deep drag on her cigarette, and then resolutely threw it down and ground it out. "At least I didn't smoke the whole thing. I'm heading inside, and you should too, before you freeze your nuts off. Want me to put the word out that you're around again?"

"Good idea."

Maggie had one final thing to tell him. "It's good to have you back. We needed you."

* * *

When Bruce returned to the Manor, only Alfred was waiting up for him. This, Bruce saw as he emerged from the hidden passage into the study—like so many times before, his butler was passing the time by reading one of his beloved antiquarian tomes as a fire slowly burnt down in the hearth.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, Alfred?"

"Now that you're home, yes." Alfred carefully closed the book and focused on Bruce, taking in his tired appearance. "I think maybe it's time you get your beauty sleep, too."

Together they left the study and headed towards the stairs, each of them bowing under the weight of their own particular exhaustion. Still, Bruce wasn't too tired to ask, "Where's Annabeth?"

"She _was _in the study, waiting, when I came up from the cave around one this morning. But she left not long after." Alfred didn't want to mention her abstracted air or her weighty silence when he had encountered her, on his way up from the cave. She hadn't asked where he had been, or what he had been doing, and that had been the most disconcerting thing of all. "I'm guessing that she went to sleep."

The Manor was now practically deserted, a far cry from the small crowd that had populated it earlier. At that moment, it seemed almost as though Bruce and Alfred were the only ones there, as though Annabeth and Leslie and all of the attendant company had never been there at all. Just as it had once been.

As they passed the door to Annabeth's room, Bruce paused. He only distantly heard Alfred's tactful good-night as he continued on to his own room, much further down the corridor. Bruce had attention only for the room in front of him.

The door was closed tightly, as it had been every night prior to this; from beyond, he could hear no telltale sounds to indicate whether Annabeth was awake or asleep. Bruce tarried there for several moments, thinking, hesitating...and then he made his decision and continued on to his own room.

* * *

His sleep was light, plagued by dreams that came as a result of his mind working hard to process through all of the information it had gathered the evening before. Shortly after six—a mere three hours after he had eschewed Annabeth's bed for his own—Bruce gave up on his attempts to rest and rose to meet the day.

And so it was that he encountered Leslie as she was about to leave the Manor.

It happened when he came down the staircase on his mission to make it to the kitchen and the coffee pot before Alfred could guilt him into herbal tea. He was taking the steps quickly, almost jauntily, the thud of his shoes drowning out the rattle of the wheels on Leslie's little suitcase as they bumped along the floor. It wasn't until he reached the base of the stairs that he saw Leslie crossing the hall and heading towards the front door.

They both halted and looked at each other expectantly.

In a pleasant voice, Leslie greeted him as if nothing was amiss. "Good morning, Bruce."

"Leslie." Bruce nodded and waited to see if she was going to offer an explanation as to why she was dressed up in her warmest overcoat and burdened down with luggage. "Good morning."

After that, they both stayed silent, and the silence stretched out. It finally occurred to Bruce that on this morning, Leslie's will was stronger than even his own. So he gave in and asked the obvious question. "Why?"

"Same reason I gave Annabeth last night, after your little performance. I don't belong here, not any more. And neither does she."

Bruce didn't appreciate this news at all. "And you're an expert?"

His belligerent tone didn't intimidate Leslie, not even a little bit. "I know enough about _this_ situation, yes. I've known you for decades, and I've spent enough time with Annabeth to know her pretty well, too. And I know enough to see that right now, the two of you need to get out of each other's way."

Leslie didn't know it, but her words hit very close—too close—to Bruce's own, increasingly unhappy thoughts, but he'd be goddamned if he was going to acknowledge it. "That's a pretty heavy does of misery to be prescribing, Leslie. You sure you know what you're talking about?"

"I know more than you do, I think. And I know you're unwilling to face facts, Bruce. How long have you kept Annabeth sequestered here? And how long has it been since you've gone into the city for work?"

"I went just yesterday!" Bruce knew, even as he made this protest, that the more engaged he became in defending his position in this debate, the more he only proved Leslie's point.

"You went just yesterday for the first time in _how _long?" Leslie wasn't fooled at all. "I know that company is your life and your legacy, no matter how much you swan about, acting like an extravagant idiot or a besotted fool. And I know, too, that you've got secrets. _Don't—_" she cut him off, sharply, as she saw him open his mouth to issue the inevitable denial— "don't you _dare_ try to lie to me. You can and will lie to anyone, Bruce, but don't lie to me. I've known you longer than anyone has, except Alfred, and I know when you're lying. So don't insult me by trying. All I'm saying is, if you want to keep up with your little secrets—and judging by your creative exit strategy last night, you do—you shouldn't be wasting Annabeth's time by dragging her into it. And you shouldn't be keeping her from getting on with her own life."

Having finished this lengthy diatribe, Leslie found herself with nothing more to say, and Bruce certainly had no response. But at any rate, none was required, for Leslie 's expression underwent a most curious change as she suddenly focused on a point beyond Bruce's shoulder, up the staircase.

"Good morning," came Annabeth's voice from behind him.

There was no point in delaying it. Bruce turned to face Annabeth, and immediately saw, reflected in her face, the same haunting, unhappy choices that he had himself begun to ponder.

Leslie must have left, but neither of them noticed. They noticed nothing except each other. Annabeth studied him, taking in his troubled eyes—usually so unrevealing, but at this moment, painfully transparent—his beautifully-cut jaw, now clenched with some unseen pain, his arms folded across his chest, as though he was already trying to sternly hold himself together, or else block an anticipated anguish. That same incipient anguish began to settle deep in Annabeth's own stomach, and she swallowed hard, hoping that her strength was greater than his.

As for Bruce, now that he was facing Annabeth, he couldn't turn away. He felt the need to withdraw, yes, to pull back and run far from her, but then, he had felt that on some level or another since the very first time he had clapped his analytical eyes upon her. But his attraction had always beaten out his aversion, and she had time and again defied analysis, and while his time with her had given him an astounding measure of happiness, it had not been without complications or price.

When they had lost their child, he had thought they had paid the price in full. But now he realized that it had just been a deposit, and that payday had come.

"She's right, Bruce," Annabeth said, and the pain in her voice said everything else. Still, underneath that pain, he could hear the firmness, the core of iron that he had always known she possessed. He recognized that core of iron, for he had one just like it, and so he respected it. He had seen it, right from the beginning, that strength to do what was absolutely necessary, to pay the price that no one else—not even him—could. That core of iron had been the first thing that he loved about her, and so it was poetically fitting that it would be what ultimately drove them apart.

Bruce sighed and held out his arms to her, a simple gesture of acceptance, and understanding, and farewell. Annabeth understood and came to him, and she allowed herself to be enfolded in his hold, just this last time, and for the moment, there was nothing more to do, and nothing more to say.

* * *

They retreated to the Batcave. There, amidst all of the equipment and machinery and weaponry and supplies and computers and gadgets, they had the perfect setting in which they could try to tentatively establish a different sort of interaction, an oddly comforting hybrid of their early working relationship and their later, shared emotional history. As they discussed the prosaic details of their parting—Maya could haul Annabeth and all of her paperwork back when she came out later; Bruce would be in touch in a couple of days regarding the re-opening of Safe Haven—they deliberately avoided anything too raw or painful. They were both strong, yes, but even they had their breaking points.

But finally, there was little more discuss than the other, more delicate matters—matters to do with the case against the Arrows, and security, and obliquely, the Batman.

"You need to let Gordon know that you're coming back to the city," Bruce told Annabeth as he took a seat across from her at the workbench and spread a copy of the morning's paper between them. "That's why I took off last night." He pointed to the headlines announcing the vandalism of the various shelters. "Percival's trying to intimidate people. I'll try to keep an eye out—but it could still be dangerous."

He had expected anger, at the very least, or perhaps even alarm, but Annabeth surprised him with an unimpressed shrug and an actual smile—the first he had seen that day. "It won't be the first time, or the last. He reminds me of those online trolls. You know, the ones that say that feminazis are just bitchy twats that deserve a good dicking. It's the only way they can lash out at us, by trying to intimidate us through fear and implied threats. It won't work. We won't be silenced."

"But Seth Percival—"

"Seth Percival's going to get what's coming to him. He's fucked with me and my family long enough." There it was again, that frighteningly iron-clad resolve. "I know what you're saying, and I hear you. I'll call Gordon, and see where he thinks I should go. But we both know I can't stay here anymore. We both have things we need to do, and we need our space."

_Christ. The classic break-up line._ And yet—their eyes met, and they both had to smile, just a little. It didn't _feel _like a break-up line, though. It simply felt like a truth that they were only finally allowing themselves to acknowledge.

"I'll miss you," Bruce said, before he could decide not to say it. "I've loved you being here, and I love you. It took me a while to figure it out. But the hell of it is...the reasons I love you are the reasons why we can't work."

Annabeth nodded in complete understanding. "It's taken me a while, too. To figure out that I love you. And I don't want you to think that I'm leaving because I don't love you. I'm leaving because I _do."_

To anyone else, this would have sounded like illogic of the most insane kind. But because it was Bruce and Annabeth, it made perfect sense to them both. It didn't make either of them feel any better, but at least it made sense.

* * *

At noon, the doorbell rang. From where she sat in the study, Annabeth listened for the sounds of Alfred answering the door. But the doorbell chimed again, echoing throughout the entire ground floor, and Annabeth sighed and headed towards the entrance. Alfred had been mysteriously absent all morning, and Annabeth suspected he knew about the changes taking place, and was perhaps sulking just a little.

So it was she who opened the front door and let Barbara Gordon in. Not feeling compelled to play the hostess anymore, she greeted the younger woman with a hint of her old snark. "Jesus, you're like a bad penny."

"At least this penny got some beauty sleep," Barbara retorted, not in the least offended. She dropped the helmet and backpack she had been carrying, and they fell to the floor with a distinct _thud. _"Woman, you look like hell."

Ignoring this very accurate assessment, Annabeth scanned over Barbara's shoulder before she closed the door. "Where's Maya? I thought you two were coming out together."

"She called me this morning. Couldn't make it—she got the trots from eating all that rich-bitch food." Barbara shook her head at the waste; clearly, she had an iron-clad stomach, and no patience for those who didn't.

"_Dammit." _This mucked things up for Annabeth; Maya hadn't yet realized it, but she was going to be Annabeth's escape route. "I told him I'd be gone before he came back," she added, almost to herself.

"That's an odd promise to make to your boyfriend." Barbara pointed this out off-handedly; she was concentrating on a suit of armor that stood sentry near the front door. "I'm surprised he'd be willing to let his princess out of the tower."

"He's _not _my boyfriend." Annabeth snapped this without thinking, and her tone was sharp enough to claim Barbara's undivided attention.

"You're leaving Bruce Wayne." Barbara said it softly as she fit together the pieces of their conversation. "You wanted to go back to the city with Maya today."

"And maybe crash with her a couple of days." Annabeth frowned as she considered her limited options. After a final, reluctant good-bye, Bruce had gone into the city for the day, and like she had told Barbara, Annabeth had promised that she would be gone by the time he got back. _Out of sight, out of mind._ She didn't want him to come back to see her still here, breaking both of their hearts.

"Well, shit, if you need a place to crash, just come on over to our place." In Barbara's, this was a situation that was quite easily resolved. "When did you want to leave?"

Annabeth restrained herself from rolling her eyes—but then realized, _why not? _She couldn't stay with Bruce any more, but Gordon's home was probably the next safest place. But it still seemed a rather hefty offer to put out there so casually. "Are you sure? Is there enough room?"

Such pedestrian concerns hadn't before, and didn't now, cross Barbara's formidable mind. "Sure," she shrugged absently, "The place is a damned zoo anyway. A funny farm. What's one more animal in the mix?"

Her total lack of interest in the reasons behind Annabeth's flight—was it genuine, or an example of Barbara's enormous yet inconsistent tact? Either way, it was what Annabeth needed to focus. No mention of emotions or motivations, only practical logistics, and it was soothing. Barbara must have realized this, for she prompted Annabeth, "What do you need to take with you? I've got a small compartment in the bike. There's a spare helmet and jacket in there now, so when you've got that on, you can stow a few things in there."

Annabeth thought of the clothing and the boxes of paperwork she had accumulated over the last several weeks. "Bruce can send Maya back with most of my stuff."

"So he _does _know you're leaving? Good. No need for a 'dear Bruce' letter, then?"

"Nope. It's a mutual decision. But I _will _leave him a note and tell him where I'm going so he doesn't assume I'm with Maya." Annabeth gritted her teeth; this was getting perilously close to touchy, emotional subjects. "Give me ten minutes, and I'll be ready."

She didn't give herself time to think. She simply sped up to her room, where she gathered a few articles of clothing and shoved them into her duffel bag any old way. The toiletry bag went in next. Only then did Annabeth pause—she had little by way of personal possessions here, but god knew, there was plenty in the little office that Bruce had so painstakingly set up for her. What to choose?

_Don't think. Just go. _

So Annabeth didn't think. She pocketed her cell phone and scooped up her laptop, and as an afterthought, snatched up the rubber-banded pile of unanswered correspondence and the file folders that were on top of the desk—those were the ones she had been working with the most. Everything else could wait.

There was nothing else to pack, nothing else to do, nothing left to say, and nobody to say it to anyway. But at the door, Annabeth lingered for just a moment, and looked back at the elegant room. Here she had been surrounded and cushioned by more luxury and love than life had ever before allowed her.

And she was walking away from it all.

* * *

_**Hang in there, guys. Not over yet-just a few more chaps.**_


	59. Chapter 59

Once more, Annabeth was coming home to Gotham.

As they drove away from Wayne Manor, Annabeth had clung to Barbara and felt the icy winds buffet them about the country road, and was grateful that Barbara seemed to possess an unnatural body heat. It was as though the younger woman had an excess of energy that her tightly-coiled body converted into a higher temperature. Preoccupied as Annabeth had been on this numbly pleasant thought, she hadn't had much chance to consider what she was leaving behind, and what she was returning to. But as they had neared the outer city limits and merged into the heavier traffic, they had slowed down, and Annabeth became more aware of her surroundings. Here was Gotham, and here she was.

Coming as they were from the north, and heading towards the Naval Tricorner Yards at the extreme southern end of the city, Barbara opted to take the loop around the city, rather than drive through its heart. So Annabeth's exposure to the Narrows, Bordertown...in fact, all of her old stomping grounds...was nonexistent, and her exposure to the towering skyscrapers of downtown was limited to them darkening the skyline, which was of course, dominated by Wayne Tower. Annabeth tried hard not to look. Realization was beginning to set in, and it wasn't feeling great.

And then Barbara exited the freeway. For a short while, they drove through some dubious-looking neighborhoods filled with equally dubious-looking warehouses, but soon the scenery began to smooth itself out towards the older houses and brownstones that were so ubiquitous in blue-collar Gotham.

The bike puttered to a stop in front of one of these narrow, old houses; it was a freestanding building with an impressive front stoop, and a walk-out basement just below street level. On either side, there was a narrow alley, and after Barbara and Annabeth hopped off the bike, Barbara guided the bike into one of them. A dark, unmarked sedan was parked there already. "Dad's home."

Only now did Annabeth begin to entertain belated misgivings. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I've never been known to have a bad idea. Come on in." With this rather grand statement, Barbara pulled Annabeth's belongings from the bike and marched up the front steps to the front door, Annabeth trailing passively in her wake.

No one could ever say Barbara didn't fully embrace whatever course of action she embarked upon. When she swept into the house and down a dimly-lit hall, she bellowed, "Dad!" so loudly Annabeth had to wince. But there was no question of backing out, because Gordon could hardly fail to answer a summons that commanding—or loud—in nature. Not only did he respond, but he did so with almost comical alacrity, emerging into the hallway almost immediately. "You're home already, Eldest...?" the rest of his question hung on the air as he realized that his daughter had not returned alone. "Annabeth."

"That's me," Annabeth said foolishly.

"Annabeth needs to stay with us a couple of days," Barbara told her father. "There's plenty of room down in the basement, don't you think?"

Either Gordon was a flawless actor, or he was in possession of a profound amount of simple human kindness, for he scarcely batted an eyelash. To Barbara, he only said mildly, "We'd better get out the spare sheets, then." And to Annabeth, he gave a crooked smile. "It'll feel like you came from the Ritz to the Gotham Flophouse, but you're welcome here."

There was no opportunity for them to exchange any more words, for the loud pounding of children's feet running down the stairs announced that the younger Gordon children had clued into their eldest sister's return. Annabeth's breath caught in her throat for just a moment as she watched Barbara disappear under a flurry of childish hugs and shouts and shrieks of laughter.

And Jim Gordon, who despite all unperturbed facial expressions to the contrary, was very curious as to why Annabeth de Burgh had removed herself from the protection of Bruce Wayne, suddenly remembered the favor that she had done for his family, and vowed to help her however he could, and ask as few questions as humanly possible.

* * *

"A zoo," Barbara had called her home, "a funny farm." She hadn't been exaggerating, as Annabeth soon realized; there was no way to exaggerate the constant traffic, the thin walls, the incredible amount of noise that four active adults and children could make.

"It was worse when my mom was still here," Barbara said to Annabeth as the two of them made their way down the stairs into Barbara's basement. "For such a tiny woman, she sure as shit could bang around a lot. Why close a door when you could slam it? I think that was her creed. At least things are somewhat quieter now."

Annabeth didn't answer; her attention was captured by her gloriously strange surroundings.

"Oh, yeah," Barbara added, "welcome to your quarters."

All of the noise overhead dimmed into the background as Annabeth slowly took in one detail, and then another. Electronics, wires, cords, speakers everywhere. The purple walls were dark, lit only by little fairy-lights along the ceiling, but it was enough illumination for Annabeth to see that in many places, the absurd eggplant color had been obscured by periodical articles and photographs that someone, presumably Barbara, had tacked up. The one unifying subject of every item on the walls appeared to be the Batman.

_Jesus christ. I just can't get away from him. _

But there was more to this wonderful, bizarre living area. At least three seven-foot-high bookcases were crammed with books, and several more stacks littered the floor. A queen-sized bed, incongruously covered in a mass of decadent-looking pillows and blankets, took up one corner, and a full-sized couch faced what had to be, in Annabeth's inexpert opinion, a 65-inch television screen. It, more than anything else, dominated the room, and certainly screamed of penis envy most loudly.

Barbara saw Annabeth gazing back and forth between the television and the Batman media and grinned sympathetically. "I feel your dilemma. Which to drool over? I got the television after two years of work on the police force back in Chicago. But the Batman stuff I got through six months of research and it didn't cost me near as much. Anyway, welcome to my home." She gestured towards the couch. "I don't sleep much, so I can take the couch. The bed's all yours. And we have wireless—" Barbara grinned, knowing this would be of paramount importance to her guest. "The code's written down on my desk over there. Plenty of food in the fridge, so help yourself, but I'll try to cook something—emphasis on the _try—_around six or seven tonight."

And that, it seemed, was that. Barbara plopped herself down on the couch in front of her television, but rather than reaching for the remote control, she instead picked up a rather hefty book and opened it up to some previously saved spot. Annabeth, Barbara's actions made clear, could take care of herself. And after the nicely-intended but sometimes rather suffocating cosseting that Annabeth had just left behind in the Palisades, this was a comforting change. And surprising, too, in how comforting it was. For the first time in weeks, Annabeth felt free from the constant, concerned surveillance of Leslie, Alfred, and Bruce, and it felt as though a rather hefty expectation—to be brave and strong, to get well—had been lifted from her shoulders. Now that she didn't seem to need to _appear_ strong, she could maybe focus on how to actually _be _strong, and how to regroup.

Annabeth sat down at Barbara's desk and started to think.

* * *

Having come from a fairly modest, middle-class background, Maya's tastes in food ran towards the conventional. Filet mignon, or lobster thermidor; either of those would fit her idea of a really delicious and extravagant meal. So when an impassive waiter has presented her with white sturgeon caviar the previous evening, she had gamely given it a try, but not without some misgivings. Alas, her misgivings had proven accurate when, at four the next morning, she had woken up with an unfortunate case of what could only be described as "First World dysentery." In the future, she'd stick with the fish and chips, thank you very much.

Now, half a day later, she had recovered. She hoped. Her recovery had much to do with the fact that she had spent the majority of the day laying about in bed, alternately dozing and watching daytime television. When Rush had brought her some toast and tea at noon, and Maya was able to keep it down—and in—she counted herself sufficiently recovered, and vowed to herself never to agree to another dinner at Bruce Wayne's until she had a chance to vet the menu.

As it turned out, her recovery was a fortunate thing, for the offending host called her cell phone around four that afternoon. Maya had long ago been indoctrinated in the ways of catering to major donors, and wouldn't have thought of ignoring the call. "Hey, Bruce."

"Hey, Maya. I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Is there food involved?"

"What?"

"Never mind. What is it?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and when Bruce spoke again, his voice was a little quieter than normal. "Annabeth left today."

This, Maya hadn't been expecting. "What? Like, went to the city for a day or something? Or _left?_"

"_Left. _It was pretty much mutual..we're still on good terms, I think, and we both felt it was for the best." Bruce's voice grew a little more confident as he said this, but Maya had known him long enough to know that his _confident _voice could also be known as his _bullshit _voice. "I think she was going to head back into the city with you, but Barbara Gordon brought her back instead."

"Yeah. I was a bit...under the weather today." Maya shook her head and tried to process this strange turn of events. "Are...you okay? Is _Annabeth _okay?"

"I'm fine, I guess. Place seems pretty empty right now. And you know Annabeth, she'll be fine. But this is the favor: she left a bunch of stuff over here at the Manor, stuff to do with Safe Haven, and asked that I either give it to you, or have you come pick it up, and bring it back to her. I was wondering...could we pass this stuff on to you today?"

"_Today?" _Maya glanced down at her shabby pajamas at the same time that she ran her hands through her greasy hair. "I'm not sure that today's the best. I'm not exactly in peak condition."

"Oh...well, we could bring it to you. Just leave it with you at your place."

Maya had a very strong hunch where this was going. "Bruce?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you by any chance on your way to my place now?"

"No."

"Okay, let me rephrase that: Are you _here _at my place now?"_  
_

"Pretty close. Ah. _Now _we're here."

By now, Rush was leaning against the door frame and listening to Maya's half of the conversation as he tried—and failed—not to smirk. Maya shot him an exasperated look as she heaved herself from the bed and padded her way over to the window. Pulling back the curtains, she saw the Rolls Royce parked by the curb, five stories below; both Bruce and Alfred were already getting out. "Bruce...do I even want to know how you knew where I lived?"

"No. But never mind. It'll only take a minute."

It took more than a minute, but with Rush helping, the three men had pulled the load out in under five. Maya gazed at the boxes with a mixture of familiarity and annoyance. "I guess we can go ahead and put them in my Bug. It's just parked down the block a little."

She made no move to help, though, and it was left to Rush and Alfred to haul the boxes while she and Bruce watched—or rather, while Bruce watched them, and she watched Bruce. He looked pretty good for someone who had just been dumped—but then he turned to her and gave a small smile. No, there was some sadness, too. It was hard to detect, but it was there nonetheless. "I'll be fine, Maya, I promise. And Annabeth and I can continue working together amicably."

"What _happened?_ Things seemed fine last night."

"In a lot of ways, I think Annabeth and I are too much alike. And we don't want to get in each other's way." This was all Bruce would tell her on that subject, and the tone of his voice said as much. "I think she's staying over with the Gordons until the Commissioner can get some protection detail worked out for her. Maybe when you feel better, you can bring all those boxes over to her? I've written down the address and texted it to you. And I was going to call in a couple of days to set up a board meeting date."

Alfred and Rush rejoined them at this point, and there seemed nothing else to say. Bruce shook Rush's hand and gave Maya a quick hug. "I'll see you guys soon." When he pulled away, he smiled, but it was a surprisingly vacuous expression, like the Bruce Wayne that Maya had first met, months ago. It was not a soothing thought.

"Well," she sighed as they watched Bruce and Alfred drive away. "So much for a quiet evening recovering."

"Why?" Rush smiled tenderly at her and thanked god that his relationship with his future wife was relatively uncomplicated. "What's on your mind?"

"I've got to take a shower—and while I'm doing that, I need you to go to the store and get a liter of vodka."

"Not exactly a great way to recover from last night is it?" Rush had his doubts, but he'd do what he was told.

"Fuck _my _recovery. This is for Annabeth's."

* * *

Since Barbara Gordon has returned to the nest, Jim Gordon had grown accustomed to seeing all sorts of odd types show up at his home, looking for his eldest daughter. And after she had turned up that day with Annabeth in tow, it wasn't at all surprising for yet another woman to turn up that very same evening. What _was _a little more surprising was that she turned up with several boxes, and was carefully cradling a brown grocery sack.

"Am I waiting for the U-HAUL next?" were his words to her when he opened the front door.

Maya smiled timidly at him; although she had spoken with him several times, including last night at dinner, she wasn't yet at ease around him. He was the _Commissioner, _for chrissakes. But he had kind eyes and a few little smile lines creasing his face, and he was the father to Barbara Gordon, one of the most delightfully irrepressible people she had ever met. "Hi...Bruce Wayne told me that Annabeth was here?"

Gordon stepped aside to let her pass, and immediately began shifting the boxes over the threshold. "You came to the right place. She's in the kitchen with Barbara, helping get dinner together."

"I'm sorry, maybe you mis-heard me. I said I was looking for _Annabeth."_

"I know," Gordon said good-naturedly. "She's in the kitchen, cooking."

"Then you'd better call the pizza delivery place now."

Sure enough, Annabeth was in the kitchen, although _helping _was perhaps not the right description of what she was doing. She appeared to be mainly standing off to the side, watching as Barbara struggled with a pot of something on the stove.

"...this shit's had it, I think," Barbara was saying. "What the fuck made me think I could make alfredo sauce from skim milk?"

"Pizza for sure," Gordon said from where he stood behind Maya, catching the attention of both women by the stove. Barbara smiled, seemingly not at all surprised by the appearance of another guest, but Annabeth was a little more floored.

"Maya...what...?"

"Your boyfriend...excuse me, _ex-_boyfriend...asked me to bring some stuff over to you. And I had to come over here and see this for myself." Without being asked—because clearly, this was not a house that stood on any sort of formality—Maya pulled out a kitchen chair and plunked herself down at the table. "So...what the hell?"

Barbara had taken it upon herself to start sorting through the grocery sack that Maya had brought, but she paused in her snooping long enough to fill Maya in. "It's true. Our little Annabeth over there flew the coop today. Oh, _good! _You got Ketel One. That stuff never gives me a hangover."

"Shouldn't you be trying to put out that fire?" Maya asked innocently, glancing over at the abandoned Alfredo sauce, which was beginning to smoke alarmingly. Barbara yelped, and became distracted long enough for Maya and Annabeth to have a brief, semi-private conversation.

"I had to get out of there, Maya. I've got a major battle on my hands, and I can't fight it all the way out there at Bruce's place. And I can't drag him into this fight, either. It would blow up in both of our faces." Strangely, it was only now that Annabeth felt the tears beginning to form behind her eyes.

"We're blowing something up?" Barbara had abandoned her attempts at cleaning up and begun to set up the tools to make boozy and effective drinks. "I do like a good fight."

"No fighting, please." Gordon now came into the kitchen and surveyed the three of them, and the bottle of vodka that had become the evening's main course. "I ordered a few pizzas. Should be here in about half an hour. I'll keep an eye on the kids tonight."

"Good idea, Pops. You're a trooper. Want a drink?"

"God, no. Someone needs to stay sober around here."

What Babara Gordon lacked in culinary skills, she more than made up for with her bartending abilities. This much was clear by the time they were half-way through their second round of vodka tonics and realized that their buzz had set in quite soundly.

Admittedly, it wasn't the best time for Annabeth to start sorting through her paperwork, but then again, if she hadn't done it then, perhaps they would not have had the brainstorm that they did. As Barbara began to regale Maya with a tale of one of her exploits from Chicago—having to do with a rogue hot-dog cart and a hedgehog gone wild in the Oak Park neighborhood—Annabeth briefly disappeared. When she re-emerged into the kitchen, she was dressed in pajamas and carrying one of the file folders she had grabbed when she left the Manor earlier that day.

Barbara cocked an eyebrow, but continued on with her tale. "...so by this point, the hedgehog's _in _with the hot dogs..."

Work, as it always had done before, soothed Annabeth's weary heart. She tuned out Barbara's raucous voice and Maya's encouraging giggles, and began to lose herself in the demands of the many tasks and jobs that required her attention...Of course, with between the vodka-induced buzz and the distraction of the company, even Annabeth could only do so much. Within twenty minutes, she had abandoned her paperwork and was tuning back into the conversation.

"Alright." Barbara set her glass down with a decisive _clunk. _"Enough pussy footing around. Why'd you walk out on your boyfriend?"

Maya snuck an apprehensive glance at Annabeth, who took a hefty swig from her own drink and gave the question some consideration before she answered.

"That's part of the problem. He's not 'my boyfriend.' He's _Bruce. _And I'm Annabeth, not _'Bruce Wayne's girlfriend.'_ We're each our own people, with our own identities, our own goals, our own names. And I think we were losing sight of that."

"That sounds..." Barbara took a gulp of her drink before she continued, "either like a very deep philosophical statement, or else a cop-out."

"It's neither." Annabeth recalled the last couple of days—her battle of wills with Timmy's dreadful social worker, the increasing alienation both she and Bruce had felt towards each other, the choices she had had to make. "Just listen..."

And so, as Maya polished off her drink and as Barbara began to snoop through Annabeth's correspondence, she told them about the visit that the horrible Clara Briggs had paid, along with Timmy; she told of Clara's veiled threats and Timmy's distress at being parted, and Clara's implications that no matter what Annabeth did, she would lose. "If I retain legal counsel with Bruce's help, they'll say that I'm 'living in sin' with him or something stupid like that. And then they'll start digging into Bruce's life and dragging his name through the mud." Of course she didn't explain about his alternative life, but then, Bachelor Bruce Wayne's life was enough to curdle the blood of any social worker. "But if I fight Social Services on my own, they'll tear me apart, too. Workaholic single woman from a troubled family background, living in a lower-middle class area of Gotham. That bitch said, so long as Timmy and I live in Gotham, we have to abide by Gotham's laws."

"Well, that's easy enough to fix, isn't it?"

The three women turned to the doorway. How long Jim Gordon had been standing there, it was impossible to say. But he had been there long enough to get the gist of the conversation, because he offered the most obvious solution of all. "You need to move away from Gotham."

Just then, Barbara looked up from a letter she had been reading. "Who the hell is Boudicca, and why's she practically sending you love letters?"

* * *

_**Three more chapters, plus an afterword, to go. I'm writing the last chapter tonight.**_


	60. Chapter 60

Monday, February 2. It was a dreary morning, right at the point of winter in which those who resided in northern climes began to think, despairingly, that spring would never arrive, and that the color green was simply a myth whispered when one recalled "the good old days." When Annabeth and Maya arrived at Safe Haven at seven-thirty that morning, the grey clouds were already lowering, along with the temperature, indicating the approach of yet another winter storm. It would start out, like so many shitty Gotham storms, as rain, but then descend into sleet soon enough. Snow, if they were lucky.

"I hope the heat's working," Maya said as she swiped her key card. It was hard to make out her words, though, for she had wound a scarf tightly around her neck, and it covered her mouth, too. Maya loathed winter, and did whatever she could to shield herself from its effects. But now was not the time to grouse—Annabeth stood silently beside her, and instinctively Maya knew she was gearing herself up to step inside. It was the first time she had been back since everything had happened.

A particularly cutting blast of wind assaulted them at this juncture, and it galvanized Annabeth into action. "Fuck this," she muttered, and yanked open the front door. "If I had nuts, they would've frozen off by now."

And so it was with little ceremony that Annabeth and Maya reclaimed Safe Haven as their own.

What struck them both, immediately, was the silence. It had been almost two months since they had had a normal working day in their building, but they both remembered the constant hustle and bustle, the phones ringing, the children crying and quarreling, the continuous stream of interruptions. Now...

"It feels like a fucking tomb in here," Annabeth muttered as she gazed around at the barren lobby. Admittedly, this had always been a rather inactive part of the building, serving as a mere front, for their true work, but it still gave them a cold welcome now. "Let's get some life into this place."

Annabeth stalked through the building, Maya trailing in her wake, hauling along couple of bags and binders, like an administrative version of a sherpa. Room by room, they turned on lights, surveyed the landscape, made mental notes and vocal observations, and tried their hardest to bring a sense of normalcy into this experience.

When they got to the second floor, though, Annabeth's resolve faltered for just a brief moment. She had spent so many hours of her time here, flitting back and forth between her office and Donna's. _And all that time..._

Maya was watching her anxiously, and thinking that in that moment, Annabeth never looked more like a young, frightened child. She longed to reach over and hug her—over the past couple of months they had certainly gotten to the point where such an action wouldn't be abhorrent to Annabeth—but she knew that Annabeth needed, in that moment, to handle things on her own.

And handle them she did, just like the Annabeth that Maya had known for so long—the take-charge, take-no-prisoners woman who barreled through each new problem as though it were a foe to vanquish. Room by room, Annabeth made her way through, rarely pausing long enough to appreciate any memories that the familiar space might evoke. Not even Donna's own office got preferential treatment—Annabeth simply stood in the doorway, assessing the room with a gimlet eye. "Were there any locked file cabinets?"

"No."

"Good." Annabeth turned her back on this room. "We need to have access to her files, for obvious reasons. I'm appointing you to clean it out."

And that was that. They continued on to the third floor. Here, Maya expected Annabeth to falter at least a little as she made her way into the playroom. Here was where Seth Percival had made his "last stand", and where, more significantly, Donna had made hers. Here was where Annabeth had learned of the truth behind her own wretched family history, and lost her only chance at family, and came very close to losing her own life. But at no point now did Annabeth slow down, not even a little bit. She merely assessed the room, coolly, unaffected. "Looks like a brand new place."

"People came in and...cleaned the whole place. Top to bottom."

"Hmmm." Annabeth studied the room for another moment. "Did they...they cleaned the carpets, too! Damn, and we had needed that for the longest time."

"Donna used to say it was a waste of money." Maya bit her lip to keep back the inappropriate smile. "I'll say this for her, that woman stretched a nickel about as far as anyone could."

The moment for melancholy and weighty thoughts passed, and Annabeth frowned as, with characteristic discipline, she turned her attention back to the many tasks at hand. "If this place is going to be up and running in a few days, we need to make a list of all the things we need to get done...stocking the fridge and pantry, for one. And making sure we've got enough by way of clean linens..."

Ever the organized administrative assistant, Maya acted at once. Digging a notepad and pen out of one of her bags, she nodded encouragingly. "Just start rattling it all off. I'll jot it all down, prioritize it, and make sure that it happens."

"Good." Annabeth's voice was unusually hard. "Because if you don't make sure it happens, it won't get done."

They continued on their way, Annabeth charging through the building, her voice steady as she issued each observation and command. Maya kept apace, diligently transcribing everything. Floor by floor, they looked at each room, personally checking to make sure all was in order. It was, of course—as they headed back down to the lobby, Maya confirmed that the cleaning company that Bruce had hired had been most thorough. "Say what you want about him, the man has an eye for quality. And he doesn't mind paying for it."

"Let's be clear." Annabeth pinned Maya with a sharp look. "You've been incredibly discreet about the whole me and Bruce thing, and I am incredibly grateful for it. Janey won't shut up about it—she's been calling me all times of day and night, reading me the riot act. But you've been very supportive, and I can't tell you what that means when I've had to make the decisions that I've made over the past few days. But don't feel like you can't like Bruce. He's an incredible person, underneath all that bullshit. I love him dearly, and you don't need to feel like you're taking sides when you say something nice about him. It's _good. _Bruce needs people in his corner."

Maya nodded. It was true, she had felt a conflict of loyalties lately, as she had headed down to the Gordon house every day for the past few days, joining Barbara and Annabeth as the three of them decided the next moves, both for Annabeth and Safe Haven. She had sympathized and agonized with Annabeth, but at the same time, a portion of her heart—a very politically savvy portion of her heart— went out to Bruce. Maya and Annabeth shared a past, but Maya was future-oriented, and she knew that Bruce would play a role in it.

Any further discussion would have to take place at another time, as they saw through the glass doors the first of the "guests" begin to arrive. Surprisingly, it was not Barbara—who they had both learned had a surprising habit of conscientious punctuality—but rather Victoria Leigh-Winston. Maya saw her first, negotiating the stone steps that led up to the entrance. By this point, the snow had begun to fall, but this didn't slow Victoria down a jot. She kept right on plowing up the steps, despite the high heels that Annabeth just _knew _she was wearing, and despite the fact that she seemed to be encumbered with a handbag and a large bakery box. And yet, as both Maya and Annabeth observed, she appeared to do this with a grace that was sickening to watch. Or at least, it would have been sickening to someone who didn't know her.

But then, Annabeth _did _know Victoria, and she wasn't sickened at all. In fact, she felt better than she had all day, now that she had a reminder of Victoria's good sense and poise and style. They would be valuable in helping to guide Safe Haven through the years ahead. "She's quite a dame, isn't she?" she said to Maya, who was scarcely able to disguise her smile. Less than half a year ago, who would have been able to imagine Annabeth de Burgh singing the praises of a wealthy Gotham socialite?

They had all changed.

Right behind Victoria came Barbara, whose galoshes clomped noisily as she entered, her cheeks ruddy and her eyes sparkling from the cold, a few snowflakes contrasting vividly from where they had fallen on her red hair. "Christ on toast! It's colder than a witch's..." As the door _swooshed _shut behind her, and she caught of Victoria, whose face was a mask of genteel surprise, she wisely terminated her analogy. But she couldn't be repressed for long; she possessed too much blithe confidence and good humor for that to happen. "Hello! I think we met—at Bruce Wayne's. You're Victoria Leigh-Winston, aren't you? That was a clever piece of legislation the Senator presented last week."

It never ceased to surprise Annabeth, how Barbara managed to blunder her way into so many awkward situations, and yet then charmed her way out of them. Victoria's polite smile had been replaced by a genuine one. "Thank you; I'll be sure and tell him. And if I'm not mistaken—you just won the Stoker Fellowship, didn't you? My congratualations."

Now it was Barbara's turn to be charmed. "The Stoker Fellowship is one of the most prestigious at the university," she explained to Annabeth and Maya. "The last three years running, the board didn't award it to _anyone—_that's how big this thing is."

So here was another reason for Annabeth to feel encouraged about the people who were taking control of Safe Haven. Over the days that she had stayed with the Gordons, she had had many opportunities to observe Barbara, and was by now firmly convinced that Barbara was a genius. "More accurately, high-functioning autistic with an ability to mimic proper social responses," Barbara had dismissed this two nights ago, when Annabeth proposed her hunch. It didn't matter, though—Barbara's formidable intellect, whatever its source, was an asset that could only serve Safe Haven well.

However, now was not the right time to contemplate Barbara's academic successes, for Maya straightened up a little. "Here's Bruce, coming up the steps now." She glanced at Annabeth in trepidation, and saw Barbara do the same. There was no opportunity to worry, however, for here he was, opening the door and striding in.

"Good morning!" Bruce's voice was loud enough to echo through the waiting room, and its forcefulness took them all aback, even Victoria. "Lord, what's with all the badly disguised undercover cops outside?"

"They're Annabeth's protection detail," Barbara told him. "And they're not even trying to be undercover. Dad gets twitchy whenever Annabeth goes out in public, so he makes sure everyone in a mile radius knows that Annabeth's being guarded."

"Sounds inconvenient." And because it would have been rude and obvious and awkward to ignore the very person they were talking about, Bruce turned to her. "Good morning," he said, and this was in a voice much quieter, even gentle. Meant for Annabeth alone.

She offered him a tentative smile. "Hey, Bruce."

"Why don't I give you two the tour?" Maya addressed both Victoria and Barbara. "Bruce has been here a bunch of times, but you haven't. May as well get to see the place and know your way around, and know what you're getting into."

The three women vacated the waiting room with almost comical speed, and their consideration gave Bruce and Annabeth a few moments of badly-needed privacy. They had parted by mutual agreement, and on good, even tender terms, but still. This was The First Conversation since, and required careful handling.

Annabeth was no good at careful handling. "How have you been?" she asked with her characteristic bluntness.

Bruce shrugged. "Been busy," was his ineloquent and unrevealing response. Actually, he remembered the last few days only with vagueness—long and lonely days, filled with Alfred's silent reproach, evenings filled with tedious social events out on the town, followed by late nights spent re-staking the Batman's claims on Gotham's streets. "Yup. Busy."

_Busy with what? _Annabeth wanted to ask, but no, she couldn't. She had given up her right to ask that question when she had driven off on the back of Barbara's motorcycle and out of Bruce's life. So instead, she went for a light approach. "How was the ice hockey game?"

It worked. Bruce smiled. "You read about that in _The Gazette _this morning, I take it?" He had attended an ice hockey game the previous evening with Felice Tannerton, the current rising star of _Gotham Got Talent. _But while ice hockey, as it turned out, was not her spectator sport of choice, _dating _ice hockey players was. And so, Bruce Wayne had left the game early, and alone. Felice Tannerton had not. When Annabeth had read of Vicki Vale's gleeful account, she had felt neither amusement, nor anger, nor even pity. Now that she understood the nature of Bruce's double life, she simply accepted it.

"Vicki Vale makes watching your social life a spectator sport for the masses of Gotham," Annabeth smiled. "What did Alfred think of Felice?"

"Alfred's too busy being annoyed as hell with you and me," Bruce admitted, and he couldn't help but to smile sheepishly. "He thinks you and I need couples counseling."

He was rewarded by Annabeth's stifled snort of laughter. And after that, it was easier—they were able to talk with each other, and carefully find their footing in this new world of After. Annabeth filled him in on the work that she and Maya, with Barbara's help, had been doing with Safe Haven, and Bruce listened and asked questions. And privately, each decided that they, and the other, would be fine. It was glaringly obvious, by Bruce's forced jocularlity and Annabeth's carefully-studied friendliness and courtesy, that they were both emotionally bruised and perhaps only barely holding it together, but in the long run, they would be fine.

When Annabeth figured this out, she decided it was time to raise the subject that she had been dreading. "Bruce..."

His eyes were wary; he knew her voice and its various shifts and octaves well enough to know that a Serious Moment was approaching. But the moment passed before it had a chance to come to fruition, because the front door _swooshed _open again, and in stepped Hugh Lundquist and Katie Moriarty, chatting amiably. Hugh, in particular, looked far more animated than he normally appeared, and it was no doubt due to the unexpected company of the vivacious Katie Moriarty. But as soon as they entered Safe Haven, they dutifully turned their attention away from each other and to Bruce and Annabeth, and so they could only extend the same courtesy to the newest arrivals.

There was no more opportunity to talk now, and there likely would not be, later—so Annabeth stole one final, regretful glance at Bruce, who could only stand by and watch as she was swept up into the hustle and bustle of Safe Haven returning to life.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Barbara seated herself at the long conference table in the meeting room. She was the first one to take her seat, so she had the advantage of being able to survey every person as one by one, they trickled into the room. As they did, Maya moved around the room, setting out legal pads and pens and bottled water, and finally, a tray bearing the delectable danishes and muffins that Victoria had brought with her.

Predictably, Annabeth was the next person to come into the room and take her seat at the end of the conference table. Barbara could tell that she had gone to the ladies' room and primped, just a little: her hair was freshly brushed and clipped back, her lips glistened with a new coat of sheer lip gloss, and she had donned her suit jacket. She appeared to be poised, confident, and quite thoroughly prepared to lead her first board meeting.

Her first, and her last.

As Annabeth took her seat, Maya paused and was seized by a moment of cognitive dissonance. Always before, it had been Donna there, preparing to lead the (admittedly scantily-attended) board meetings. It had always been Donna, projecting the necessary aura of leadership and vision and competence, and looking down the table and grimacing at Maya as they each silently contemplated the tedious meeting to come. But now things were drastically different. Donna was dead, and in this strange new universe, it was Donna's daughter Annabeth who now gazed around the room and pondered and planned. The other difference was that now the room was filling up—a far cry from board meetings past—with dynamic, involved, often influential people, hand-picked by Bruce for precisely those qualities. Maya suspected there would be nothing tedious or boring about today's meeting.

Here was Bruce, now, coming into the room, talking earnestly to Sandra Sondheim, the civil rights attorney. Barbara watched him for a moment, and then compared what she observed with what she knew of him, and decided that perhaps he was a little off today. Not much, and if she hadn't have had a firsthand knowledge of recent events, she would have just chalked it up to Bruce's notoriously erratic behavior. But he seemed more mercurial than normal—overly enthusiastic, and then morosely subdued, and sometimes swinging wildly between the two in a short span of time.

Barbara wasn't the only person watching Bruce. She saw Maya pause in her task for a moment, a small frown furrowing between her eyebrows. In her conversations with Maya, Barbara had detected in the transparent young woman a genuine and platonic affection for Bruce, and it was clear that her affection led to the worry that was now written all over her. Not once had Maya questioned or reproached Annabeth for her decision to leave Bruce—in fact, Barbara and Maya had both agreed that it was the wisest and healthiest course of action for them—but her loyalties were beginning to feel a strain. Maya had a long and strong past with Annabeth, but sensed that the future lay nearer to Bruce.

"I think everyone's here now," Annabeth's voice arrested the attention of everyone in the room. "Let's go ahead and get started..."

Bruce, Barbara noted, seated himself at the other end of the table, far down and opposite of Annabeth. Yet it felt not so much like an obvious act of opposition, but rather a subtle act of balance.

Annabeth felt the same way, because she gave Bruce a tiny, grateful smile just an instant before she launched into the little statement she had crafted and rehearsed many times. "I just want to take a moment and thank all of you for joining us and for stepping up to help during Safe Haven's hour of need." She paused, and allowed herself a brief moment of smugness; _this was cool! _It felt like she was _made _for this. "Safe Haven recently entered a prolonged phase of transition, but looking around now and seeing you all here, I can say with utter confidence, that Safe Haven will emerge from these transitions intact, functional, and with a focused and promising future."

Everyone was silent, although one or two people nodded in approving agreement. Bruce was one of them.

"Shortly before her death, Donna Drake appointed Bruce Wayne to the board of directors. Bruce accepted this appointment, and, due to the lack of active board members, became board president by default. In short, Bruce is now the acting President of the board."

They all knew it—had known it for a while—but nonetheless, it was still disconcerting to see that same acting President of the board sitting at one end of the table and look vaguely bemused, as if he couldn't quite remember how all of this had come to pass.

"Bruce has foregone the responsibility of chairing today's meeting," Annabeth continued, "and so I will do so in his place, as well as deliver the director's report and recommendations. Maya will take minutes, and Sandra Sondheim has agreed to serve as Parliamentarian for today's meeting..."

And so it went. Of course, Barbara had spent several hours the previous evening, studying the structure and governance of nonprofit organizations and becoming familiar with the finer points of Robert's Rules of Order. She has also spent much time learning the history and mission and finances of Safe Haven, inside and out. And now, she had the meeting agenda in front of her. But she still hung on to every one of Annabeth's words, not wanting to miss a single morsel of information.

Similarly, everyone else at the table remained respectfully silent and attentive as one by one, Annabeth plowed through the items on the agenda. The first item she tackled was, of course, the elephant in the middle of the room—or, as she blandly phrased it, "the incident on the night of December 22, 2008." Despite the fact that she had been both witness to, and victim of, this incident, she managed to render her summary in terms so dry and unexciting, it would have been comical had it not been so disturbing:

"At approximately 6:30 in the evening on December 22nd, several armed intruders forced their way into Safe Haven, and precipitated a hostage situation. The intruders did damage the property, as well as some of the hostages, and Donna Drake was killed. Copies of the official GCPD summary and report, in addition to several witness statements and incident reports submitted by clients, are available in the now-vacant director's office. Safe Haven is scheduled to be 'open for business' and receiving clients as of..."

And that was that.

Annabeth moved on to the next critical issue, that of appointment of board members. She would, she explained to Bruce and the rest of the audience, provide her recommendations, and if Bruce approved, he would then make the appointments, which the appointee would then accept or decline.

"First recommendation: appointment of Barbara Gordon Junior to the position of Vice-President of the board."

_Huh? _Barbara rarely found herself at the disadvantage of being surprised, but now was one of those rare times. She heard Annabeth explaining to a stonily silent Bruce about her background in law enforcement, her forward-thinking mindset and technological and research skills, her civic-mindedness and energy—

"Fine. I appoint Barbara Gordon to the position of Vice-President. Miss Gordon, do you accept?"

Thoughts of her still-unwritten thesis, as well as her obligations to her father and siblings, flitted through Barbara's head, but she dismissed them quickly enough. Well, what was one more responsibility? Not like she slept that much anyway. "I accept," she said, deliberately ignoring the vexed expression on Bruce Wayne's face. She knew she discomfited the man, but she had no idea why. Other than helping out Annabeth, it wasn't like she had ever gotten into his business. Well, everyone knew Wayne was a little odd. Lord only knew why he had taken against her.

The appointment process proceeded. Katie Moriarty, recommended, accepted, and appointed as secretary; Hugh Lundquist, recommended, accepted, and appointed as treasurer; Sandra Sondheim for parliamentarian, Victoria Leigh-Winston for chair of the fund-raising committee...bit by bit, person by person, the governing board of Safe Haven took shape, and Annabeth visibly took heart, and gathered her courage for the final and most important item on the agenda.

"And with that, we now come to the issue of staffing and personnel. As you all know, the death of Donna Drake leaves the position of Director vacant, and it's vital that we fill this position as soon as possible. I've taken the initiative and compiled for the board a list of potential candidates, a few of which, I might add, approached _us. _Along with this list, I'm submitting a summary of each candidate's qualifications, as well as my own assessment of the potential of each." Here, Annabeth paused. Up until this point, she had conducted both herself and the meeting with consistent poise and competence. But now, for a moment, she hesitated and fell silent. _Crossing the Rubicon, _she thought, finally understanding the old phrase's import. And then, when she spoke again, her voice was as strong and confident as ever.

"The board needs to consider one more position that is being vacated, and that will need to be filled—or not, according to the board's discretion. As of five p.m. today, I will be resigning from my position as Safe Haven's Lead Counselor and Administrator. I apologize for the lack of notice, but I've accepted a position elsewhere, and in light of recent events, I need to consider my own well-being and safety."

Reactions from the board members varied—Hugh and Katie appeared mildly surprised, but Maya and Barbara, not at all. They were, after all, the two who had spent the past days assisting Annabeth in planning and executing this checkmate move. Sandra Sondheim retained her composure with a predictable poker face. Victoria glanced with dismay from Annabeth to Bruce—the former seemed serene and maybe just a little sad; the latter, as poker-faced as Sandra.

"In a manner similar to my approach with regards to the director position, I've prepared a list of potential candidates whom I feel could adequately succeed me, and I now submit this for the board's approval."

She slid the papers in question towards the center of the table, and it was this action that convinced Bruce that Annabeth was deadly serious. She was leaving, not just Bruce, but Safe Haven, and maybe Gotham. He remembered that she had tried to speak to him just before the meeting began; this must have been what she wanted to warn him about. Well, at least she had tried. Now, all he could do was try to do right by her, as well. He spoke, and for once, there was little thought or calculation put into his words. "The board accepts your resignation, Annabeth, with deep regret, but also, with thanks for your years of service. Safe Haven owes you tremendously—you've given up a great deal for this institution, and we honor you for your sacrifice. I promise, on behalf of the board, that we will not squander the legacy you leave behind."

One or two people in the group glanced in mild surprise at each other; who knew Bruce Wayne to be so serious? But most around the table nodded in agreement and murmured appreciative platitudes, and Annabeth accepted them with a small smile on her too-composed face.

From that point on, there was little business left to conduct, only a "round robin", during which each board member spent a few minutes pontificating on they honor they felt in being part of this, and how they wished Annabeth the best in her future life.

Conventional words, of course, but no less sincere and kind for all their conventionality. And of course, Annabeth thought as her eyes met Bruce's, how could they guess—she had already had the best?

* * *

_**Still not done, but soon. Hang in there.**_


	61. Chapter 61

Excerpt from the February 6, 2009 Edition of the Gotham Gazette, local section:

**_New Headquarters for Gotham Social Services_**

**_In an announcement that many regard as surprising, given the current economic climate, The Gotham Department of Social Services announced that they will be undertaking construction of a new headquarters, equipped with state-of-the-art technology and a number of other conveniences tailored towards the overburdened social workers. Ground-breaking will take place in July of this year, and construction is expected to be completed within 18 months._**

**_Through a statement issued by the Director's office, _The Gotham Gazette _learned that the majority of the funding comes from a private, anonymous donor, but that one of the senior social workers, Clara Briggs, was instrumental in securing the donation..._**

The last edition of _The Gotham Gazette _that she'd be reading for a while, and this was it? Annabeth gritted her teeth and restrained the urge to throw the newspaper against the wall. She didn't have a single doubt about who the "anonymous donor" was, and she knew exactly how that odious Briggs woman had secured the donation. And to make it doubly insulting—they weren't hiring more social workers or increasing the stipend paid to foster families, no. _They were building a fancy new building. _

It would be neither the first time, nor the last, that Annabeth found herself absurdly happy to be leaving Gothm. But she hadn't left yet—she still had her home to pack up, and Donna's home to deal with, as well. On that last count, at least, she had an option—she was going to hire movers to come in, pack things up, and put everything in storage, to be sorted through later. After Timmy was older, and he had come to her and settled into his new life.

If he got that chance.

* * *

From a press release issued by Safe Haven, Inc.:

_**New Director Appointed to Safe Haven **_

**_The board members of Safe Haven, Inc. are pleased to welcome Ambershawn Truelove as their newly-appointed director. Ms. Truelove, a recent transplant from Seattle, comes to us with a wide background in social work, advocacy, and fund-raising, and was most recently the Associate Head of Operations at Gateway Shelter, Seattle's largest women's shelter._**

**_Says Ms. Truelove: _"_I'm very excited to join the team of dedicated employees here at Safe Haven, and I'm very excited, too, by the opportunity to work with such a dynamic and committed board. While Safe Haven is a relatively new organization, it has the benefit of therefore being young and open to innovation. I hope to contribute to Gotham, and the people we serve, to the best of my abilities."_**

With an improbable name like Ambershawn Truelove, Maya had been expecting just about anything or anyone to walk through the doors of Safe Haven. At this point, she wouldn't have been surprised if the board had hired a cross-dressing Mennonite, or perhaps a midget Buddhist with a furry fetish. Therefore, she was relieved when, on Ambershawn Truelove's first day at Safe Haven, she was presented with a short-statured, rather matronly-looking woman. Almost, Maya suspected, like what Annabeth would look like in twenty years

"You're Maya," Ambershawn's smile was warm and genuine. "The board has told me that you're the person I need to befriend if I want to be successful here, so I'm very excited to meet you. I hear you're getting married soon?"

All of the charm that Donna had, with a little more warmth, and a lot less of the glamor, but no less likable for that reason. Maya believed in being adaptable, so she adapted, and soon fell into the rhythm of working at a place without Annabeth and Donna. It wasn't nearly as difficult as she had thought it would be, but in typical, modest Maya fashion, she didn't realize that that had as much to do with her own strength of character as it did anything else.

* * *

_**Excerpt from the March 22, 2009 Gotham Gazette, Society Pages:**_

_**Where in the World is Bruce Wayne?**_

**_As spring finally, FINALLY begins to settle in and open the doors to Gotham's brief but delightful social season, many of us are wondering one simple thing: Where in the world is Bruce Wayne?_**

**_Normally a regular on the Gotham social scene, he has been almost completely absent in the past two months. Is he halfway across the world, perhaps frolicking in the waters of Aruba with the Russian ballet? Or could it be possible that he is nursing a broken heart? _**

People talked. People wondered. People called, they emailed, they kept an eye out. And more often than not, they were disappointed—Bruce Wayne seemed to have completely dropped off the face of the Earth, or at least the Gotham Social Scene. Soon, the rumors were circulating. He and that Annabeth woman had eloped. No, they had broken up, and now Bruce was in Vale. Was it Vale? So-and-so said something about the Poconos. But someone said that they ran into him the other evening, coming out of the Gotham Rotary Headquarters, looking as dazed and confused as ever. This last particular tidbit of information, oddly enough, was the only truly accurate one.

One thing they all knew for certain—speculating about the possibilities of Bruce Wayne's whereabouts was a lot less satisfying than witnessing them firsthand. Gotham wasn't the same without its bumbling beloved Prince.

But It wasn't just Gotham's social scene that was being neglected. The streets of Gotham were, too. Maggie kept an eye out for the Batman, but he was no where to be seen, and no one mentioned having seen him, either. But remarkably, the crime rates began to hold steady, and then drop. Alfred kept an anxious eye on Bruce, but the younger man offered nothing by way of explanation. He traveled into the city to go to work, and then to visit Safe Haven, but most every evening, he returned to the Manor. And he didn't venture out again until the next day.

Barbara did what she could to keep an eye out for the Batman. She gently grilled her father, but got little useful information from him. She scanned the newspapers—both mainstream and underground—for any mention at all, any rumors about the Batman. But there was nothing. Radio silence.

It was like he had never been there.

* * *

**Excerpt from the front page of the Monday, March 30, 2009 edition of The Gotham Gazette:**

_**Mayor Garcia Announces Second Rally**_

**_The Mayor's office issued a statement today, indicating that the City of Gotham will be backing a second "Take Back the Night Rally" this autumn, the date to be announced later this year. No further information is available at this time, and the Mayor's office did not return telephone calls seeking comments on the matter._**

"How'd you manage that?" Bruce asked Katie Moriarty one day as they lingered over a lengthy Sunday brunch. Contrary to recent speculation, Bruce was not dead or missing in action; he had simply become more reclusive, more choosy in where he went, and when, and with whom. Katie Moriarty had been an unexpected revelation; she represented an older, comfortably-married woman, relatively free of scandal and drama, but filled with interesting and often salacious conversation.

Katie shrugged nonchalantly. "It wasn't too difficult. My husband-"

"Your _husband?" _Bruce practically hooted. "The President of Gotham University? The one whose name no one knows, or ever even mentions?"

"Yes, _him." _Katie helped herself to the pitcher of mimosas that the waitress had left. "He took Garcia out for drinks and steaks the other night. It wasn't too hard. The man's really a bit of a whore for the highest bidder. And now without Annabeth de Burgh trotting about, rubbing him the wrong way, he was quite pliable. Not that he didn't need some smacking around, and our Annabeth was the perfect one to do it..." She drifted off as she remembered who she was talking to, and saw the pain briefly pass through Bruce's expression. "Anyway, flies with honey and all of that."

Bruce had always preferred vinegar to honey, himself.

* * *

**Teaser headline in the Saturday, April 4, 2009 edition of _The Gotham Gazette:_**

_**Giving Voice to the Silent Victims of Unspeakable Crimes**_

**_With all of the press coverage that has been dedicated to the trials of Seth Percival, Michael Donzetti, Jones Le Blanc, and several other men and women implicated in the "Violent Night" incident, it is very easy to forget the other, more silent half of this event: the victims. _**

**_In most cases, they are still nameless. In all cases, they are by definition "illegal aliens", but in many of the cases, they had little say in how they arrived here. But regardless, they are here now, and they are our responsibility. Do we send these females—some as young as thirteen—back to their countries, back to the poverty that often landed them in this predicament to begin with?_**

**_Due to the proactive nature of our Police Commissioner, along with the cooperation of various federal agencies and municipal halfway houses, the victims of "Violent Night" are safe, and are in the process of being issued green cards. But this is just one happy ending in an otherwise deeply problematic issue which is rapidly becoming a hot-button topic in American discourse. However, before we jump too heatedly into this debate, perhaps we should learn a little more about the faces behind the names of "Violent Night." In this Sunday's _Gotham Times Magazine, _Vicki Vale interviews several of the young women who endured hell before being rescued by Commissioner Gordon, his team, and—if rumor is to be believed—the Batman..._**

Trinity rolled her eyes and set the newspaper down. Vicki Vale would be a wonderful reporter one day, if she could wriggle out from underneath the grasp of that subpar _Gazette. _This was one of the many things Trinity was beginning to learn she didn't miss about Gotham; here in South Florida, she had the _Miami Herald _and all the quality journalism she could hope for.

Also, sun.

She would be returning to Gotham soon, for the trials of Donzetti and le Blanc, but after that, she was gone again, and intending to never return. Miami had been a revelation, and the little condo where the Feds had set her up was just the right size for her tastes and needs. Perhaps, once she was settled in, she could move her mother down to some place nearby—but not too close, of course. Perhaps Fort Lauderdale. Close enough that Trinity could get to her easily, but far enough away that it was unlikely she'd be involved in her daily—or nightly—business.

Had she learned any lessons? Most certainly, but not lessons that a preacher or moralist would appreciate. She'd never again allow herself to be manipulated or duped into becoming someone's tart. And while she certainly wasn't about to leave her business behind, she would never again even consider the possibility of becoming a madam. She had seen, too much, what power could do to people, and she was just fine exercising power and authority over no one but herself, thank you very much.

There _was _one thing that had shifted inside of her. Since the night that the Batman had torn through the stash-house in Gotham, kicking ass and liberating women, Trinity had been thinking, almost nonstop, about the women who had cowered in that attic. They had been young, and desperate, and scared, and she found herself thinking of the ways in which their lives had led them to that point, and pondering the differences between her and them, and really, her and all women. Maybe they weren't so different.

As she tossed the paper into the recycling bin, Trinity's eye fell on the phone book that she had tossed in the bin a few days before. _Who used phone books anymore? _she had wondered. But now, she paused, and then pulled it back out. Once this trial was done, she'd look up the number of a few shelters. Maybe there was something she could do to help them.

* * *

**Excerpt from the Wednesday, April 15, 2009 edition of the _Gotham Gazette:_**

**_Record Breaking Trial Produces Conviction, Lengthy Sentence_**

_**In Gotham City, the old addage is "The only thing more shocking than the crime rates is the lack of justice." The typical murder trial takes an average of fourteen months to make it to a court room, and conviction rates are well below the national average. Once convicted, the felon must usually wait (courtesy of the taxpayers' money, of course) for a sentencing process that can take as long as two months.** _

_**When all of this is taken into account, then, it makes the initial results of the speedy "Violent Nights" trials all the more surprising. Two days ago, the foreman of the jury announced to a packed court room that they had found Seth Percival guilty of attempted murder, as well as many lesser charges. He is the first to be tried and convicted in the most recent round of Gotham's Wars on Organized Crime, and what is even more remarkable is that the judge passed down the sentence less than 24 hours after Percival's convicton: thirty years in prison for the charge of attempted murder, plus an additional fifteen for the lesser charges. If passed, recent legislation introduced by Senator Gregory Winston will ensure that Percival is denied the possibility of parole until after he has served a minimum of two-thirds of his sentence.** _

Barbara didn't consider herself to be a cynical person. She worked hard to keep an element of positive hopefulness in her mind, and tried to recognize defeatist thoughts as they took root. But as she sat at the kitchen table and read Vale's most recent commentary on the "Violent Night Trials", and the hopeful speculation that perhaps there was a growing element of intolerance towards crimes against women, she couldn't help but to roll her eyes. Had Vale been stoned when she wrote this piece?

Well, maybe not. At Safe Haven, they had been delighted when they heard about Percival's conviction, and the news of his sentence a mere day later led many of them into the throes of near-ecstasy. Perhaps they were all feeling a little more hopeful, even Vale. And even if it was overly-optimistic, where was the harm in letting Gotham think that the times, they were a-changing? Maybe if you were told it enough, you'd start to believe it.

Well, there were other things that Barbara _could _change. And she would. She abandoned her newspaper and grabbed her helmet. Time to get over to Safe Haven, and rectify one more thing.


	62. Chapter 62

All up and down the Eastern Seaboard, the land finally began to emerge from what even the meteorologists were admitting had been an exceptionally long and hard winter. There had been a couple of false starts, cruelly-taunting warm spells in mid-March, which had quickly been defeated by a fresh onslaught of storms that had immobilized the entire region, delayed spring planting, halted commerce, blotted out the sun for days on end, and generally gave millions a bout of Seasonal Affected Disorder.

But finally, it appeared that winter had passed. Two weeks prior, the last of the dingy, grey snow had melted away, and now, in mid-April, the land was covered in a veil of green so vivid and delicate, it could almost hurt the eyes of those who had forgotten what color could be like.

Yes, winter had passed. Even in Gotham City, life was creeping back into the city. In the Naval Tricorner Yards, Barbara watched as the daffodils began to poke through the weary soil of their tired plot of land in the backyard. She thought briefly of trying to cultivate the area, but then dismissed it, figuring—rightly so—that the garden area would flourish more through her neglect than through her attentions. In midtown, people began to cultivate their window boxes, planting seeds and looking for th first timid shoots, the fragile evidence of the hydrangeas and tulips and mums to come. Downtown, the few trees began to bud and thrive, like the literary tree growing in Brooklyn, and up in the Narrows, even the weeds were once again feeling confident enough to make their appearance, peeping through the cracks in ill-maintained sidewalks, a typically shabby yet adamant fuck-you to the environment in which they emerged.

At Safe Haven, the newly-installed Ambershawn Truelove saw the signs of life elsewhere in the city, and not-very-quietly bemoaned the lack of verdant life on their own grounds. And once she finished bemoaning the issue, she set about trying to rectify it. Forewarned by Maya, Victoria was primed to offer up her Gotham estate grounds for weekend outings, and after a certain amount of prodding, Bruce made a similar offer. And Barbara led similar forays into Robinson Park a couple of times a week, herding small groups of children through the city and trying to ignore the protection detail that her father had insisted remain assigned to Safe Haven throughout the trials.

It was after Barbara returned from one of these field trips, a couple of days after Seth Percival's sentencing, that she finally ran into Bruce in Safe Haven. She had been hanging about as often as she could manage, but their paths did not often cross, other than at the monthly board meetings, and Barbara was perceptive enough to know that this was not entirely accidental—she suspected that he tailored his schedule to avoid encounters with her whenever possible. Since they had both assumed their positions on Safe Haven's board, Bruce had been nothing but courteous to her, prompt in his correspondence and respectful of her input, but there was little warmth and no familiarity between them. Barbara was too kind to admit it, but the fact was that this awkwardness stemmed entirely from Bruce—partly due to his instinctive and inexplicable antipathy towards her, which she had sensed from the very beginning, but most of it came from his anger towards herself and Maya.

Since Annabeth had left Safe Haven—and Gotham—two and a half months before, Barbara and Maya had maintained a conspiracy of silence, effectively shutting Bruce out from any and all information they gleaned about her. Whatever they knew of Annabeth's actions and whereabouts, they were not telling Bruce, and no matter how he had posed his questions, they had revealed nothing. It was hard for him not to be resentful when confronted with this non-cooperation, and even the gentle camaraderie he had pnce established with Maya had cooled.

But that day, as Barbara tromped her way back to the general staff room that most of the board officers used, she happened to pass by Bruce in the hall. "Hello there!"

As much as he wanted to, Bruce could not easily give anyone the cold shoulder when they stood in front of him, so earnest and friendly. So he arranged his face into what he hoped was a passably amiable expression. "Oh, hello there. Where'd you come from?"

As if there were any question. Her pale, freckled cheeks were ruddy from the brisk spring breeze blowing against them, and her eyes sparkled with fun and merriment. He hated to admit it, but in that moment, Barbara almost looked pretty. "Robinson Park. Took the little beasties on a scavenger hunt with the po-po not far behind. Fucking annoying. What about you?"

"Oh-" Bruce waved his hand vaguely. "I've been here and there. Getting stuff done, I suppose-" he fell silent as Barbara put a hand on his arm. "What's up?"

She answered with a squeeze, and her grip was hard. Only when she was sure this gesture had caught his undivided attention did she speak. "Let's have a moment of private time, shall we?"

Where Barbara was concerned, Bruce felt that private time spent with her was little better than private time spent getting to know the meaning of the word "waterboard." He tried to wriggle out of it, both literally and figuratively, pulling away from Barbara as he said, "I'm actually in a little bit of a hurry-"

"Who isn't?" Barbara dismissed this argument as the flimsy excuse that it was. "I'm busy and hurried too, and we both have the same number of hours in the day. The only difference is that I don't have the luxury of outsourcing _my _duties to a devoted manservant or a paid multinational corporation."

"I don't outsource _everything!" _Despite his aversion to Barbara, the woman could somehow provoke him into an argument with minimal effort. "I don't outsource _this, _for example. And I don't outsource my shoe-shopping. Or my con—Well. You see my point."

Barbara did see his point, and had no desire to venture any further down this particular road, nor to contemplate Bruce Wayne's choice in condoms. So she said the one thing she knew would shut him up. "It's about Annabeth."

This time, it was Bruce who gripped Barbara's arm, hard. He hustled her down the hall and into an empty room—fittingly enough, the office formerly known as Annabeth's. These days, only Bruce used it. Now, he brought Barbara in, flicked on the lights, and closed the door, sealing their conversation away from the ears of any passers-by. "Talk."

So Barbara talked—predictably, at great length. "First of all, I gotta tell ya—lay off Maya already. She was all for telling you a long time go, but by some miracle of god, she managed to keep her mouth shut. It was fucking hard for her, too. She's worshiped you like an older brother, and all you've been doing is giving her the stink-eye. She was only doing what Annabeth asked us to do, so give the poor chick a break."

"Alright, alright." Bruce held up a hand to forestall any further diatribes. "I know I've been difficult towards her—"

"You've been a _dick _to her, Bruce. And you're the president of the board, and technically, you could probably fire her. This is not an easy situation for Maya. You can't be like that. Apologize to her, and for the love of god, _knock it off already."_

Apart from Annabeth, Barbara was the only person who could go toe to toe with him and emerge from the argument having the upper hand. He could respect her for that, even though he couldn't like her. And so Bruce had enough humility to look suitably chagrined, as well he ought. "It's just this little collaboration you've all had going on since Annabeth left—neither of you would say where she's gone, or what she's doing-"

"_Because Annabeth asked us to."_

"I could have found her." Bruce knew he sounded like a petulant, thwarted child, but he didn't give a damn.

"I know you could have."

"I could have gotten on the phone and had some investigator find her five minutes after she took off." Actually, he could have done it himself, or had Alfred do it, but no need to share that with Miss Busybody. "I could have, but I didn't."

"I know. Annabeth said that you could, but that you wouldn't—that you would respect her wishes."

"And I did." Bruce glared at Barbara, who stared back, unflinching and unapologetic. "All you would say was that Annabeth didn't want to be found. And I tried to leave it at that."

"Tried, but failed," Barbara reminded him. "Every time you saw us, you'd ask about her. But like I said, Annabeth didn't want to be found. Not then." She placed a delicate emphasis on these last words, and it was enough to divert Bruce's attention.

"Not then," he repeated. "So that was then..."

"And this is now."

"But what's now?"

"Now that Seth Percival is well and truly fucked, and up shit's creek, Annabeth can breathe a little easier. I'll tell you where she is, but you'll have to tell her the rest."

But she didn't disclose anything more, not just yet. Bruce sighed. "There's a catch, isn't there?"

"Just a small one. An easy one. A truce."

"A truce?"

"I'm not talking the Treaty of Versailles, Bruce. No war guilt clauses." Barbara considered something and smiled a little. "Although, forcing you to pay reparations _would _be profitable. No, a simple truce, whereby you drop whatever grudge it is you have against me, and I try to be a little less eager to annoy you, and we try to genuinely get along and like each other. I'm not a bad person, Bruce. One day, you might actually be grateful to have me as a friend."

Bruce nobly restrained himself from curling his lip in disgust, but even so, his expression made it clear that he doubted this possibility could ever come to pass. Nonetheless, he managed a fairly strong attempt at a smile. "Truce."

This was enough for Barbara. "She's just outside Leesburg, Virginia, about an hour from DC. Managing a house there, and doing part-time lobbyist work. Go to her, Bruce."

* * *

Via the I-95, and then the I-70, Leesburg was about a five-hour drive from Gotham, but by the time Bruce had made it past Trenton, he had already grown tired of the traffic congestion and the industrial, urbanized bleakness that surrounded the highways. Knowing that it would only get worse, and knowing that Alfred didn't expect him to return at a specific time, Bruce made a spur-of-the-moment decision and took an exit that eventually led him onto a more rural, ill-maintained, but visually pleasing route. It took longer, of course, but it was a soothing drive, and gave him time to think and mull things over in his head.

As he headed further South, the few lingering effects of winter began to disappear, until the only evidence that remained were the occasional creek or river, still swollen and from their recent thaw. The farms, few and far between as they were, were the only indications of human habitation, but in the main, only field and forest lined the road.

By the time Bruce had crossed the state line into Virginia, the day was long past noon and well on its march towards evening. As he approached Leesburg, he became more tense, more alert, more observant. _So this is what Annabeth chose. _The address that Barbara had given him was fairly cryptic: "Willows House, Sterling Road, Leesburg, Virginia," and she had warned him that it was deliberately vague. "It's not even in Leesburg proper. And it's not the kind of place you can just sit down and Google or Mapquest. They wouldn't want just anyone to know where they are."

"Then how do _you _know?" Bruce had asked her, but Barbara wouldn't say. She merely gave him the directions, which she had written in a surprisingly neat, meticulous hand. "Security's tight there, too. Make Safe Haven seem like a kid's treefort in comparison. There's a guard gate, and if they aren't expecting you, they might not let you in."

Bruce had been skeptical. "Is this a shelter or Fort Knox?"

"Neither. And both. And something else entirely." Barbara could be annoyingly vague at times. But she hadn't been kidding about the location—it was difficult to find, and surprisingly remote-feeling for an area so close to DC.

"Just keep driving down Pleasant Fields Way for about seven miles," Barbara's instructions read. "Just past the old firetower, there's going to be an unmarked road on your right. That's Sterling Road. Turn there, head past the forest grove that looks like a fucking elven glen of Lothlorien-" it was this editorializing that had solidified Bruce's suspicions that Barbara had been here before- "And then you'll get to a clearing, and a gate house. After that, it just depends on if they'll let you in."

Of course, Bruce followed these specific instructions to the letter, and now his car was idling just outside the predicted gatehouse. Three guards—all of them obviously and alarmingly armed—emerged from the structure, although two stood back a little as the third one, slightly smaller in stature and therefore disarming and possibly even more threatening, approached the car and began to engage Bruce in conversation. "Are you lost?"

"No. I'm looking for Willows House."

"Is anyone expecting you?"

"No."

The man nodded, but became visibly more alert and on-guard. "Okay. You'll have to wait while we call through for clearance. Who are you hear to see?"

"Annabeth de Burgh."

"Your name?"

"Bruce Wayne." It was liberating, in a way, to move through a region unencumbered by local and casual familiarity with his name, fortune, and family history. It was possible that one of the gorillas had shifted slightly when he heard Bruce say his name, but Bruce's interrogator, at least, appeared not to know of him, and also appeared to not give a flipping fuck one way or another. If Jesus Christ had approached the gate house, Bruce had no doubt that without proper ID and twelve apostles and their IDs and maybe Mary Magdalene too, this guard would cheerfully tell them all to go straight to hell.

"Bruce Wayne for Annabeth de Burgh, huh?" With this unpromising remark, he disappeared into the gate house, leaving his meathead colleagues to stare impassively at Bruce. Bruce stared right back, unimpressed, and entertained himself by imagining how he'd incapacitate them both in a fight. After all, he was the original meathead.

But in a surprisingly short period of time, the first man reappeared. "You're clear, pending inspection."

"Inspection?"

"Routine. Step out of your car for a moment, please."

For Annabeth, he would oblige. The inspection was routine—a cursory wand scan and a brief, practiced glance over and through his car, the innocuous Volvo that Alfred had acquired last year. But the guard came up with nothing—after all, Bruce was simply Bruce at the moment, with nothing to hide.

"You're clear." And just like that, the guard became much more friendly. "Just head up the road about half a mile, and the house will be right there in front of you. You'd be a twit if you missed it. I bet your Volvo has decent suspension, but mind the potholes all the same. And if you're staying the night, just remind Ms. de Burgh to call down here and let us know."

_Staying the night? _Bruce hid his surprise as he thanked the guards. They were just doing their jobs, after all, and he was beginning to suspect that they were paid handsomely to fulfill their duties.

Beyond the gate, the road became bumpier, and the scenery changed from forest and trees and brush to, abruptly, a vast and open field, gently rolling, carpeted in the delicate green of spring grass. More than a few wildflowers were visible within the grass, and a gentle afternoon breeze rippled its way through them, making the yellow, pink, and red bulbs sway and nod happily, as though they approved of the temperate weather.

In the center of this open field, visible from quite a distance, stood Willows House, looking deceptively small at first. But as Bruce approached, he realized that Willows House was anything but—it was obnoxiously big, in the way that only McMansions could be. And that was exactly what this place was. Like many new structures, it had been built to look old (and of course failed), but unlike most of these structures, Willows House actually bore the traces of quality materials, and careful research, and talented craftsmanship. Not only was it huge, but it was the complete antithesis of Annabeth's origins.

Whereas Safe Haven had been a tall, narrow, shabby brownstone of a building, crammed in a row of similar structures, Willows House was a sprawling, beautiful monstrosity, most closely resembling a Victorian farmhouse with aspirations of grandness. A porch wrapped its way around the entirety of the first floor, and a deep balcony graced a large portion of the second. A steeply-pitched roof and dormer windows underneath it hinted at an attic, but Bruce suspected it was, in actuality, a third story. It was no Bellingham, of course, nor even Wayne Manor, but still, it was impressive.

Around the house were a few trees, mature and towering and now dressed in budding leaves. Further out from the house were several plots of freshly-turned soil, where no doubt the seeds of flowers and vegetables had either been, or were about to be, carefully folded into the welcoming earth.

_What the hell?_

But even as Bruce wondered this, he remembered something that Annabeth had told him a long time back—or at least, it felt like a long time back—one night when he had comer to her home with chicken noodle soup and confused intentions and no idea what the hell he was getting himself into. And she had shared with him one of her few ambitions...

"_It'd be nice to open up a place out in the country. Maybe on an old farm. Some place where there's actual nature, and animals, and trees. Some place away from all this mess."_

Well, it looked like she had made it happen.

There was a small gravel lot in front of the house, and so this was where Bruce parked his car. But he didn't get out right away. From this vantage point, he could see a few people on the porch by the front entrance—a young girl, playing with a toy car, and then, further off, two adolescents gangling about on a porch swing. None of them looked his way; they didn't seem to care who the visitor was.

But there _was _someone who had noticed. A woman emerged from the house, and Bruce recognized her instantly. Even from this distance, he recognized her posture, her dark clothes, her carriage. Annabeth.

Now, Bruce got out of the car.

* * *

It was a short walk from the car to the house, but by the time he had reached the bottom of the porch steps, Annabeth had come down to meet him. And several other more people had gathered on the porch.

Bruce glanced at the small crowd. "Don't you guys have cable?" he asked her—the first words he had spoken to her in two months or more.

"Yes, but you know this is so much better than reality t.v.." Amazingly, Annabeth laughed. And while it was this friendly laugh that set the right, easy tone, and circumvented the awkwardness of their reunion, it was also this laugh that sharpened Bruce's vision and helped him see—this was not the same grim, tired, world-weary Annabeth, child of Gotham, but someone born again, remodeled and very different. And there would be no going back to the person she had been.

Bruce smiled at her, for any other response would have been churlish. But he didn't expect this noncommittal, pleasant expression to provoke the following reaction from Annabeth: she hugged him. Spontaneously and strongly. But while Bruce was taken aback, he still returned the hug, and allowed himself a single moment to set aside his surprise and everything else and just _feel _her.

But it was he who pulled away, gently extracting himself from her arms after a moment. "You've _changed," _he said in a moment of total, uncalculated honesty, and it was true. She _had _changed, visibly, just in the last two months. Now that he had the time to study her up close, he could see the evidence—she had cut her chestnut hair; where once it had fallen past her shoulders, now it just reached her chin. And she had put on a little weight, too—she resembled, more closely, the curvy Annabeth that Bruce had first met back in the late summer, and it suited her far better than the haggard, drawn appearance that she had taken on by the winter. Also, her cheeks appeared to bear less of the Gotham-induced pallor that one saw in so many of the blighted city's inhabitants. Most striking, however, was something much less detectable unless one knew her: the smile that had come so much more easily to her lips, the less tense, hunkered-down posture, simply less of a preoccupied, unhappy air. "You're _really _changed."

"I know." Annabeth actually patted her ass and grimaced. "My wardrobe has too. And therefore, my paycheck."

It was bizarre, contemplating this lighter-hearted Annabeth. It was also strange to be doing so under the scrutiny of such an intensely curious group of people. But thankfully, Annabeth had decided that the time for public exhibition had passed. "Come on inside, and I'll take you to my office. We can have some more privacy there."

He followed her inside, and he was human enough to admire her confident stride and the way she filled out her jeans. But even as Bruce was admiring her figure, he was being reminded—_getting away from Gotham had been good for Annabeth._

Within, the building was every bit as orderly and attractive as it had been on the outside. As large as it was, it resembled nothing so much as a rather grand inn, or perhaps an elegant boarding house. Annabeth led him through a foyer and past a sitting room, and while she didn't pause—clearly, giving him a tour was not high on her list of priorities—Bruce nonetheless caught intriguing glimpses of hardwood floors, well-maintained antiques, and tastefully decorative vases, dishes, and other knickknacks. A lot of money and effort had gone into making this a top-notch place.

Annabeth saw him looking around. "The building was completed about a year and a half ago. A large portion of our client base are working- and middle-class women and children, and some immigrants. But there's a small portion of well-funded women who have passed through these doors at certain points. They remember us."

They continued on until Annabeth came to a stop in front of door which bore a gleaming brass name-plate, still brightly new, with the words "Annabeth de Burgh, Director." But this nameplate was not the only thing the door boasted; it was reinforced with a sturdy deadbolt, as well as an electronic keypad. All in all, a far cry from the indifferent, flimsy security that had been the hallmark of Annabeth's office in Gotham. Of course, Bruce could have picked these locks almost as easily, but it didn't mean he would.

Would he?

He shoved this thought aside—it had no bearing on his current errand—and focused on Annabeth again. After unlocking the door and leading him inside, Annabeth gestured for him to sit down, and then seated herself at her desk. The entire scene was so drastically different from her Gotham office—there, her desk, in fact, all of her furniture, had been battered, old pieces, culled from various secondhand stores; numerous file boxes had lined the floors and crept up the walls; there was very little room for elegant wall art, or anything, really, of a personal nature. Now, her furnishings and décor matched that of the interior that Bruce had seen, and the place was unspeakably organized.

"I have a part-time personal assistant." Annabeth offered this explanation as she correctly guessed the source of his amazement. "She's no Maya, but she's damned good. And now...I just have to find the confidentiality and nondisclosure forms I need for you to sign. Remember those? But at least this time I won't threaten to rip off your testicles and feed them to the emus."

They had developed such a substantial body of history in such a brief period of time. Bruce smiled as he signed the forms, and then, as he pushed them and the pen back to Annabeth, he told her, "We donated the emu farm to an animal rights group. They're in the process of relocating the emus to other habitats. All expenses footed by the Wayne Foundation, of course."

"Naturally. But what can Gotham mock you about now?"

"They'll find something." Bruce waved off this question unconcernedly. "After all, the Prince of Gotham's usually caught up in some shenanigans or other,"

"Not from what I've heard lately." Annabeth's eyes told him what her voice did not: that he was feeding her a line of bullshit, and she knew it. "Sounds like the Prince of Gotham can't find his way out of the enchanted castle."

_Sounds like someone's been keeping tabs on me, _Bruce wanted to retort, but didn't. He was too busy trying to ignore the unworthy resentment that was now niggling at him, He had respected Annabeth's efforts to disappear; he had not gone to great lengths to try to find her. But was galling was that she had _known _where he was, and seemingly had kept tabs on him. But she hadn't reached out, hadn't broken the silence or bridged the distance. She could have, but she didn't.

Annabeth watched as Bruce's struggle with his thoughts, his emotions, and his sense of fairness played out on his face. She wanted, desperately, to reach out, to touch his hand, _anything. _But she wouldn't. She couldn't. "Bruce?"

"What are you _doing here?" _he demanded. "What happened?" And there, in his voice, she could hear those two months of abandonment, and confusion, and yes, even hurt. All of it, the result of an unyielding silence on her own part that nonetheless said much—it spoke of secrets and alienation and misinformation. His voice was what, at least briefly, cracked Annabeth's resolve. Now she did stretch out a hand and catch Bruce's wrist. "I need to show you something."

The unexpected feeling of Annabeth's hand on his wrist temporarily silenced Bruce, and it was enough to give Annabeth the opportunity she needed to continue. "Come with me," she said, rising from her seat, and there was such unhesitant expectation that Bruce would obey, that he did. He rose, too, and followed her through a door that he had noticed before, and the transition was unsettling. It was as though he had stepped through a portal and emerged into Annabeth's home in her Gotham condominium. But on closer inspection, he realized this was not quite accurate—the surroundings were, themselves, quite different; it was simply the contents, the furnishings that were the same. Even the old, rickety sofa was present. And here, too, were Annabeth's dog Jed, who was even now joyously _woofing _hello, and her cat Wurzel, who gazed balefully at him from her perch on the top of a bookcase.

Nevertheless, there were other, unfamiliar elements to the space—furniture and accessories that echoed the style that was evident elsewhere in the building. Annabeth saw him eyeing a suspiciously-original-looking Mission-style dining table, and smiled at his curiosity. "The place came furnished, but I had the option of bringing some of my own items-"

"So you chose your _couch?" _Bruce couldn't help it, he had to laugh.

"It has character. I realized I couldn't leave it behind." Annabeth was laughing, too. "Anyway, the nice digs aren't a bad perk of the job."

This brought Bruce's attention back to the elephant in the room. "Which is what, exactly?"

"You saw the sign on my door. Primarily, I'm the director of Willows House, but I'm also a contracted consultant to a partner organization, the Boudicca Foundation for Equality. There, I'm essentially a strategic advisor."

"A lobbyist."

"You say that as if it's akin to terrorism. And it's only part-time." Annabeth knew she sounded defensive, but she had discovered to her own surprise that she enjoyed the work. "I operate out of DC once or twice a week. And Boudicca was what directed me to this job-"

"But _why?" _Bruce wasn't ready to move past that, yet. "You had a job."

Annabeth didn't answer this, not immediately. Instead, she indicated that he was to continue following her as she took him through more of her quarters, and despite his confusion and growing resentment, he followed,

"My room," Annabeth gestured towards one closed door. "And the guest room." She gestured to another. "Already, you see this place is bigger than my Gotham condo. And this—" she paused in front of a third doorway, but lingered there, and then opened the door, "This will be Timmy's room."

Bruce could tell from her aura of suppressed pride and excitement that this was important to her, and so he stepped into the room. And immediately understood her emotions. It was a room that surpassed the most hopeful imaginings of a young boy—the navy-blue walls showcased a galaxy of silvery-white constellations, and a special, child-sized telescope stood at the ready in front of a large window. A long, low bookcase bore several toy dinosaurs, building blocks, and other playthings, as well as a modest yet solid collection of books. Unsurprisingly, the child's bed was dressed in dinosaur-themed bedding, bearing the print of stalwart stegosauruses facing down comically fearsome tyrannosauruses.

"I hope to hell he likes it," Annabeth said, and now anxiety was audibly doing battle with her pride. "He was into dinosaurs last year, but I'm told that he's gotten really interested in stars and planets and the solar system."

"You're told? Why don't you just ask him yourself?"

"Because," Annabeth sighed, and Bruce suspected that this sigh presaged a long and unhappy story—_well, with Annabeth, was there any other kind?_—"I haven't been allowed to see or speak to him since January."

* * *

Incredibly, the tour of Annabeth's home wasn't quite done yet. She took Bruce into one final room, a brightly-lit, glass-enclosed sun porch, and it was here that they settled in for what they both knew would be a long and hard conversation. It was difficult, when they were surrounded by white wicker furniture, and lovingly-tended houseplants ("My assistant waters them," Annabeth admitted) and beautiful views of the surrounding fields, for them to step back into the sorry filth of Gotham.

Annabeth sat across from Bruce and began to recount the last two months, starting on the horrible day that Clara Briggs had brought Timmy to the Manor and begun to wage her war. Bruce remained silent, and slowly, his resentment began to diminish, replaced by his more standard respect for Annabeth and her lonely struggles. "She basically said she'd make life hell for both me and Timmy. And she knew how to do it—divide and conquer. Bitch was a brilliant tactician, I'll give her that. She knew you'd be a powerful ally, and so she dealt with that by threatening to use our relationship as a reason not to give me custody of Timmy. Living in sin, and all that. And she said she'd go digging and drag out every nasty little thing about you, and me, and us..."

"Just a minute." Bruce cut her off. "Do you mean to tell me you took off because you got spooked by a _social worker _threatening _me?"_

"I couldn't take that chance, Bruce." Annabeth was as convinced now as she had been then. "I wasn't going to risk losing Timmy or getting you discovered. I love you both too much for that."

"But I could have helped!"

"At what cost?" For the first time, Annabeth began to appear agitated. "You'd been putting me first for too long, and you and I were both starting to figure that out. _You know that. _But Bruce, our work—Gotham—had always come first, even the night we lost the baby. I came damn near closed to dying in that hospital, and you weren't there. You were where you belonged, out kicking ass and busting up human trafficking rings and saving lives and making Gotham a little better. _And I was glad. _I wouldn't have had it any other way. I understood what you chose, because it's what I would have chosen, too. And I _did _choose it, in my own way. I chose what was best for all of us. Isn't that what you've always done?"

Dammit, but she was right. Bruce knew it, and she knew it, and so she continued to press her advantage. "So I needed to distance myself from you, and I needed to get away, and Jim and Barbara helped. I stayed with them, and Jim pointed out that if I didn't live in Gotham, I'd maybe have a chance to get another jurisdiction involved, one that wasn't infected by corrupt people like Briggs. I _know _Percival was paying her off, and her boss, too. And then Barbara found out about Boudicca, and suggested that I let them recruit me. So I got back in touch with them, and explained what had been going on. And they offered me legal representation if I moved down to the DC area and came to work for them. Bruce..." here Annabeth paused in her story, struggling to find a way to articulate her struggles, her agonizing over her choices and sacrifices, "A hundred times I wondered if there was another way...but I just couldn't see any other route, and I was the only one who could decide."

They sat there for a while, not saying anything; Annabeth felt it was best to let Bruce process through all of this information on his own. So they remained quiet and watched the golden sunlight creep across the field as the shadows lengthened and the day began its descent into dusk. But then, finally, Annabeth worked up the nerve to speak again, and her voice was perhaps a little choked. "I wanted to call you, so many times. Just to hear your voice, to know how you were doing...but Barbara-"

"Oh yes. _Barbara." _Here, finally, Bruce allowed a small spurt of anger to permeate him. "She's been _so _ helpful."

"_Don't." _Annabeth almost shouted this. "You think this was what she wanted—to be caught in the middle? But she did what the situation called for. She's been amazing. She's been the friend who did what I couldn't do myself. If it hadn't been for her and Jim, I'd probably still be stuck in some undisclosed location in Gotham, trying to negotiate every obstacle that motherfucker Percival has thrown my way for the past two months." Tears, finally, were beginning to gather in her eyes. "Don't forget, Percival is the enemy, and he has been all along. Barbara's been a friend and ally to both of us, whether or not you knew it. She never asked questions. She kept me up to date about you-"

"She kept _me _in the dark about _you," _Bruce snapped, but there was less venom in his voice now.

"Because I asked her to. I needed to lay low, and I didn't want you coming around, trying to talk me out of things or catching Clara Briggs' attention. I stayed down here and worked with Boudicca's attorneys and signed papers and filed motions and gave depositions and statements and prayed to god that it would be a war of attrition. That we'd outlast Clara, and the trial, and that Seth Percival would be convicted. And he was, and Clara Briggs lost her extra source of money, and for once in my life, I fucking won. And I won't apologize for a single goddamned thing." Her words had been coming quicker, and now she stopped, for sheer want of breath. But she still glared fiercely at Bruce, daring him to question her strategy and sacrifices.

Wisely, he didn't. "So now that Percival's going to prison...?"

"It's finished, this thing he's been doing. He can't fuck with me any more. As soon as the sentence was passed down, we got the call—he's been cut off from his funds, they've been seized by the FBI, and Gotham Social Services is dropping the fight. The State of Virginia will take over temporary wardship by the end of next week, and they'll grant me legal guardianship by the end of the month. Once Percival couldn't funnel any more money into Briggs' pocket, Gotham couldn't offload Timmy fast enough. _That's _more like the social services system I know and remember. And now I have the chance to keep Timmy out of that system. A chance to balance the scales."

It was fitting, Bruce had to admit. Donna Drake's first child, once left to the tender mercies of an overloaded social services system, now had the chance to save Donna's second child from that same system—a system now not just overburdened, but corrupt as well, willing to use a young boy in a pawn in a struggle of revenge and greed. Annabeth was right—it was a chance to balance the scales, to right one wrong and prevent another from occuring.

And hadn't Bruce made his own share of far more morally dubious decisions and sacrifices, in order to help Gotham and right wrongs and balance the scales? So really, who was he to judge? How could he hold it against Annabeth for doing the same thing he would have done, and how could he be angry with Barbara for having the courage to help? Of course, it certainly felt different now that he was the one to suffer from someone else's sacrifice, but perhaps this was a lesson he needed to learn. He thought of Alfred's silent worry, his aborted relationship with Leslie, of Rachel Dawes' unhappy rejection, of his own intransigence causing so much of this. So how could he blame Annabeth for engineering her own happy ending, the only one she could manage with the hand she had been dealt, the only one she could manage that wouldn't put him at risk? She had done what she could to protect him, and Gotham, and Timmy, and she had done it out of love.

"You made the right decision," he admitted. "You fought for Gotham right up until the end, even with a strategic retreat."

"I think it's the hardest thing I've ever done," Annabeth said softly, "If it's any consolation. But Gotham had taken so much from me. I wouldn't let it take Timmy from me, too. And I'm actually _happy _here. But...I want you to be happy too."

_Happy. _Had anyone else told this to Bruce, he would have rolled his eyes. But if anyone could talk about what it would take to be happy, it was Annabeth. But still... "I belong in Gotham, Annabeth. At least for now. The way that you belong here."

If Annabeth had been harboring some small hope for a meeting of the minds, or a tender reconciliation, his words left no doubt—at least at present, there was no room for that hope, not for either of them. But oddly, it felt right, at least for now. And who knew? Perhaps they would change in the future, change their minds and reunite as older, and more settled, and less fixated on their own lives and goals. But for now, this forgiving acceptance had to be enough. It was enough for Bruce, he realized, and it was enough for Annabeth, too, as her next words confirmed.

"I once told you that not every story has a happy ending," Annabeth mused as she watched the sun begin to dip below the distant treeline. "But maybe I was wrong. Maybe there _are _happy endings. Just not the ones we imagined."

* * *

_Author's Note_

_**"It'll be over by Christmas."**_

_**Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it, and it's a double irony when it's a history major who doesn't remember it. That would be me, by the way. They said the Civil War would be over by Christmas...and yet some might argue that it's still going on! They said it about the Great War, too. And look how well that worked out for the Lost Generation. And I said, back in the early autumn of 2008, "I'll be done with this by Christmas."**_

_**At first, it felt like that. I kept pace. As summer turned to autumn, the same happened in Gotham. Annabeth and Bruce obligingly kept apace with me.**_

_**And then...well, life happened. I went through a break-up and the usual "what the heck am I doing with my life?" issues. I began to deal with some health issues. I met a guy. We got married. I became a rather psychotically dedicated public servant (as opposed to the rather more mundane workaholic public servant that I had been before). I developed other priorities. I developed silver hairs and a love for red wine and a very pickled liver.**_

_**But I learned a lot during these last four years. I became more adventurous in my creativity, and more accepting of myself. I came out of the fanfic closet. I began to appreciate the statement "Write drunk, edit sober," although I didn't always adhere to this maxim. I learned that a story becomes too bloated, too long, when you can no longer keep track of the details that you yourself have written. I know this now.**_

_**When I began this story, it was because I loved the concept of the Batman, but I was extremely annoyed by his smug insularity. It seemed as though he was willfully ignorant about the "small stuff." So I started writing about the voiceless, the underserved, the overlooked. (It's worth noting that I had the plot fleshed out before the Occupy Movement and before human trafficking became the cause **__**célèbre**__**.) It's no secret that I'm a raging feminist, and I would never aspire to be anything different. But I value empathy and honesty, and I can say, honestly, that my writing took on a tone of condescending misandry at times. I don't think there' s fully-fleshed-out male character of my own creation (i.e., non-canon) who wasn't a total pig from hell. I gave you plenty of decent females, but few males. Bruce, and Alfred, and Gordon, and Lucius, they are all DC's creations. Seth and Donzetti and le Blanc and Annabeth's father—they are all mine, and they are not nice people. I suppose there were a few nice supporting male characters, but they were almost Mary-Sueish in how decent and non-dimensional they were. And that was my own limitation, both as a human and a writer. Does it make me a shitty, reverse-shallow person? Maybe. But at least I recognize it. At least I'm willing to fight back against my innate misandry.**_

_**Four years have passed. "Hope and change" have happened, and then a certain amount of disillusionment set in. The economy tanked—it was tanking when I was writing the most, and drinking red wine, and laughing hysterically at Jon Stewart's take on all the shit going down—and god willing, we've all weathered it. At some point in the last four years, at least 19 Batman fans made the decision to attend the opening night of the last movie, and their lives ended as a result.**_

_**What I'm saying is, we've all changed. Annabeth changed, and I changed, and you changed. And here we are.**_

_**Thank you, especially, to** ** members**** Speakfire and SerendipityAEY and Paola Hernandez and titebarnacle. You all made a huge difference. You altered my life.**_

_**Thank you to the Cyborg, my then-boyfriend, who neglected me (his neglect gave me so much time to write!) made me watch all seven seasons of "The West Wing". Annabeth Ghish's name was the one that first popped into my head when I was thinking about the protagonist.**_

_**It's worth noting that this story is dedicated to K. Believe it or not, K is a real-life person who underwent an experience similar to Annabeth's. And that's all I'm gonna say about that.**_

_**And, finally, here's a bibliography, if you wish to do further research.**_

Davis, L. (1991). Violence and families. _Social Work_, 36 (5), 371-373.

Fisher, B.S., Cullen, F.T., and Turner, M.G. (2000). _The sexual victimization of college women._(NCJ Number NCJ 182369).Washington, DC: The U.S. Department of Justice.

Landsman, Peter. (January 25, 2004). The girls next door. _The New York Times Magazine_ .

Malarek, V. (2004). _The Natashas: Inside the new global sex trade. _New York: Arcade Publishing.

Morton, T. D. and Reese, L. (2011). Domestic violence, the recession, and child welfare. _Policy and Practice, _69 (2), p. 17-18.

Thrupkaew, N. (September 16, 2009). The crusade against sex trafficking. _The Nation. _

Tjaden, P. and Thoennes, N. (2006). _Extent, nature, and consequences of rape victimization: findings from the National Violence Against Women survey._ (NCJ Number 210346). Washington, DC: The U.S. Department of Justice.

VanNatta, M. (2005). Constructing the battered woman. _Feminist Studies, _31 (2), 416-443.


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